You’ve just arrived in a swampy, dim town. As you look around, your gaze is met with shacks and cabins. It smells of rotted wood and wet moss. You 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?))
He'd carefully position himself into the seat, feeling the loosened robes on the soft cushion. The mysterious elf would perk up at the advancements made by the woman, asking suspiciously, "Why do you want to know?" Discrimination against dark elves wasn't common, but he was more afraid of the backlash of being a mage. When the woman didn't respond; he felt as if his suspicions were.. true. Deception would be better suited to accommodate such a situation. "Firve Pirve," he'd say cautiously. "-And," continuing, "I am a.. blacksmith!" Fonrus hoped that this lady, living in this very rugged town, wouldn't have laundered too much outside-knowledge. "I'm also a sculptor, but that's more of a hobby." He stated this with a hint of blush coming through the dark tones of his face, knowing that this was probably.. one of the biggest lies he's told yet. When he saw the old hag just standing there, still stating nothing and leaving him be, he'd give a small wave, stepping out of the small area he had been placed in; fixing his robes. "Have a good day, madam." Fonrus would say politely, walking off, continuing his journey back home away from the eerie town that lay before him.
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