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?))
"Expecting me hm?" Araro says with a sly smile before sitting down in the dirt with the old hag, obviously not bothered by the dirt and grime. "My story is one of no consequence you could say. Born to two dark elves, a rarity I know, I was raised by my father to be a hunter. Bows... knives... I was taught by my father the best way to hunt. To silently stalk through the land, watching your prey, not letting them out of your sight for even a moment."
Araro's easy smile drops for moment as he says, "Now, old woman, how about you tell me how you were... expecting me? I think you have a rather interesting tale to tell."
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