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?))
Carefully, Deulara walked through the sodden surface, one boot slightly sinking into the moss-covered mud as the other fought for its dear balance. The dorsum of her nose scrunched to the fetid trail of rot that clung to her environment. Her body shuddered in goosebumps. Her hair momentarily brushing over her shoulder in rhythm to her constantly shifting gaze, before absorbing the sight of crooked shacks. One would compare the exhausted sight of decaying shelter to tired sentinels — barely standing, no motivation or will to serve. The tense gloom of the swamp she stood in struck her hips with a knife-like unwelcome demeanor–the place felt unfamiliar, nor did she endure the quiet. Certainly, it wasn’t the cold that made her legs crawl — rather, how unempty the silence was expressed. Elves do not possess adrenaline, and thus, her face remained serene. With one more breath, she approached the tattered tent as the mud stubbornly clung.
The air inside smelled of faint smoke; the candlelights forming what seemed-to-be dancing shadows. It calmed the uncurling feeling in her chest. Finally, another face to ponder, Deulara thought to herself at the glance of the beldame before her very eyes. As insisted, she would sit — the ground, not granting comfort. Her fingers brushed over her hair, tugging onto a silver thread woven, a relic of some sort. For some time, Deulara said nothing–her eyes cast downwards as she traced her fingers along the dirt into a pattern she only held dear to her heart. The pattern was not random, nor necessary, but it only gave her time to collect her thoughts.
“Vrax,” she greeted, “I come from Vel’obv”, she spoke, her voice low and rough, as if unused to speaking aloud. “A clan bound... by blood and oath to the Ashen Union,” darting her gaze upwards. “Sworn to honor who watches over all of us. The ancestors.” Her red eyes seethed in the dimly lit surroundings. “I was never… truly, part of it. Indeed, my flesh was dull.”
Her nails dug into her palms. “Indeed, I listened to their chants, graced my eyes to the sacred rites, but I did not care to join-...” She paused momentarily, “Rather, the courage was absent. I honored the Ancestors in silence–in my own way, small private acts nobody understood.” She itched the back of her head. "In truth, some rites I knew not, and rituals I failed to grasp."
She swallowed, wiping her palm against her forehead. “To my dismay, my distance was declared defiant. My reverence, suspicion, then fear. Even those I cherished feared what they could not fathom.”
“Even the tides of the sea withdrawn; absent in its usual ceremony.”
Deulara’s arm lifted, the thin fabric sliding off her shoulder – what the tissue unintentionally hid was a pale scar marked down her shoulder. The mark seemed to be a cast of shame, devoid of the intention of murder. “At exile, a companion struck me with magic. Another–laughing–hurled hatchets in the far fog; a cruel game for them. It is a shame, indeed. Pain bloomed where trust once dwelled. Who among us could have dared to dream it so?” Her voice faltering, her eyes clouding with not tears, but sheer disappointment, her eyes devoid of energy, where one would suggest the need for rest.
“Must belonging suggest surrender?” Her fingers tapped to the tone of her voice. “Say, may doubt and faith walk hand in hand?” She lifted her gaze again, finally intertwining her gaze with said present hag. “I am split–a fierce silence, but a longing for my people.” Her voice momentarily louder — a fate her voice could not bear, given her circumstance.
Deulara suddenly coughed into her hand, tapping her palm onto her face. “I, now search for a place where the silence is not a crime, and the questioning heart is not condemned.” The load of guilt pressed against her ribs. “I carry the burden of those I left behind. The cousin who reached for me, but was cast out themself, the crafters that once believed, but a mere handful of ash.” Her fingers trembling, she gently rested her hands against her lap.
“So then, you say you expected me. I know not if I am cursed or blessed. The seas lie distant, unfeeling. I could not fathom it. I’ve yet to comprehend my path.”
The silver thread was finally adjusted to the palm of her hand, her fingers tightening around it. “I am devoid of expectations, where this road will lead me. No matter, I will walk through it. The Ashen Union shaped me, but it will not break me.” Her voice softened, a quick peak of realization reflected in both her eyes. She stood.
“Pardon my indulgence–I should have spoken my name first. Deul- Deulara Olazeiros is it.”
A pause hung in the air.
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