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.”
Izetrix is stunned momentarily, his senses overwhelmed by the sudden assault of elements surrounding him. The elf's imagination was running wild, and the heightened thrum of the heart in his ears was exhilarating. Walking through the mulch and moss of this boggy town was alien and foul in pointed-heel shoes, and the faces he saw were a far cry from home. He loved it. His brows are knitted closely together, rendering his priorities briefly before surrendering to his curiosity. He draws out a dramatic sigh, "Expecting me? My, what a flattering introduction! Fine fine, I'll sit if you so insist. My heels are aching anyways," The magician waves a glove— the facets on his rings catching the dim light of the candles surrounding her. His eyes are trained on the hag's uncomfortable gaze in challenge. It feels like she's baring into his soul. Everything about this place made the hair on his arms stand up to attention. Izetrix receded his lips in reluctance before relenting, his usual foxy grin replaced with trepidation.
"Listen close and listen well," The man crosses his legs and fidgets with the vial draped against his collarbone, continuing, "You might as well be the last to hear this. I'm willing to leave behind all that used to be me with you, starling. My life as an elvish scholar was asinine at best and debilitating at worst. I would rather rot in this disgusting bog you call home than scour through another glimmering library to make my family satisfied. Lúthien Salix is dead, and you are the last to witness him alive." He leans forward and props his chin in his palm, letting out a soft sigh. There's a beat of silence as he mulls over his proclamation. It was time to embrace the heart of the matter. The elf— no, the man gains tension in his shoulders and sits tall with pride.
"My name is Izetrix. A human man as far as anyone is concerned. A magician in the art of cards and entertainment, and the true purpose of my nature? It is to live."
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