Your character has just arrived in a swampy, dim town. As they look around, their gaze is met with shacks and cabins. It smells of rotted wood and wet moss. They duck and step into a tattered tent, illuminated by a series of candles suspended in the air. At the back of the tent, an old hag raises her head, “What brings you to this dingy town? She begins, then pauses to study your face—”Ah, it’s you. I’ve been expecting you. Sit,” she gestures at a cushion, “Tell me your story.”
((How do you respond?))
The smell of rot and moss clings to her nose as Aithlin looks at the cushion. She doesn’t sit immediately, but after a small pause, she lowers herself gracefully onto it.
“I am Aithlin Vaerelis. Born in a quiet High Elven enclave far from here. My blood is pure, my upbringing... traditional. I was raised among marble halls, surrounded by scholars and spellbooks, where progress was praised, but only within rigid boundaries.”
She lets out a quiet breath, her voice softening.
“But I’ve always had a restless heart. A sense of adventure. I wanted to see the world beyond, to breathe new air, to shape a life of my own choosing. So I left, not in exile, but in pursuit of something greater. A fresh start.”
Aithlin meets the hag’s eyes.
“I have a sense that I am close to my purpose. I must go.”
Aithlin stands, her pale skin glowing faintly under the candlelight. She nods once to the old woman, then turns and slips quietly back into the night.
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