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?))
I look over my shoulder to see if she's talking to someone behind me, but there's no one else around. I go to sit on the cushion while trying to hide how shocked I am that she recognised me. "Well...", I avoid eye contact and think about where to begin, "My story isn't really that spectacular. I was raised by my mother on the Isles of Almenor among the Wood Elves. If you're wondering why I'm light-skinned, my mother told me my father was a high elf, I never knew him. My mother passed when I was 16, so...". I pause to look into the old hag's eyes for the first time since I've started talking. I wonder if I'm already oversharing. I look at one of the candles and continue: "Needless to say it has been a difficult few years, but I came here with a close friend to begin a new chapter and rebuild our lives in Nevaehlen. Technically I'm an archer but I'm better at carving wood and decorating a bow than actually hitting a target." I chuckle nervously and look outside. "Do you know where I can find a place to stay?"
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