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?))
Aerion grew up in a small, isolated village, clinging to the edge of the elven kingdoms. His parents, humble trappers, knew the sting of true poverty. Every harvest was a gamble, every winter a battle against hunger. There were no grand tales in their home, only the practical struggle to survive. Yet, a flicker of something unexplained always clung to his father's silver eyes—eyes that mirrored his own—and a hushed, almost fearful reverence his mother held for certain symbols. His life was devoid of luxury, but rich in unanswered questions that simmered beneath the surface.
The elf steps forward, his silver eyes scanning the candlelit tent as the old hag watches him with knowing anticipation. The damp scent of the swamp clings to his armor, mixing with the smell of melted wax and aged cloth. He keeps his expression measured, though the hag’s words stir something deep within him. Lowering himself onto the cushion, he rests a hand near the hilt of his blade—not in aggression, but in quiet caution.
“I have come seeking answers,” he says, his voice steady. “If you have been expecting me, then you already know why I’m here.” He studies her wrinkled face, waiting for her response, the flickering candlelight casting long shadows as the air between them grows heavy with unspoken truths, a palpable weight settling between them as the minutes stretched on, marked only by the soft drip of melting wax.
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