MatronMaeve

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?))
 

Sindra’s eyebrow raises slightly with seeming confusion written across her face, “Expecting m- .. you were waiting for me?” Eyeing the cushion, she sits down falling into the comfort of the seat. “Ahhh.. uh where to begin then?”

A faint smile, too practiced to be confident, flickers across her lips.

"I’m Sindra. Sindra Kevariel. Born in Númenost… though I’m sure it’s changed since I last saw it. I was only there in my childhood. It's a place of high towers and stone halls, the wind would sometimes whip up the side of the cliffs sending the red banners furling, from what I remember. My father’s a parchment maker. Eltarion. Lovely father. Bit… hmm… indoorsy. He’s always been more at home among pressed reeds and bark pulp than in a crowded market, if you get my meaning. Taught me everything I know—vellum from hide, fiber from bark. There’s a craft to it, really. Dull work, maybe, but there's beauty in it if you squint hard enough—at least, that's what he always says. I’m not so sure though.."

Sindra fidgets with the edge of her sleeve, picking at a loose thread.

"My mother, Lirieneth… well, I suppose she’s out there somewhere. Not that I’d recognize her if she passed me on the road. Father never spoke of her much. Never said she was dead, either. Just… not around. And that has always been that." Sindra sighs looking lost for a moment before continuing.

"I had a younger brother. Trivian,” she elates with warm eyes. He was loud enough for the both of us. Braver to, or maybe just quicker to leap into rivers with no clue how deep or shallow they were. He always said the world needed to hear my voice, but never quite let it. Funny, that. He meant well. Always does- did I mean. He used to stay up late with me and read books stolen from our father’s small collection. I can still picture his face lit by the dancing light of a candle as he read aloud in a quiet whisper. Books of the histories, such as The Siege of Sanjezel and how the elven forces rallied together helping secure the safety of Orc’s city or even an accounting of the fall of the Holy Oren Empire. Most of the time I would fall asleep before retaining any of it. But I can recall his favorite- an accounting of Cirimas Elendil, the founder of the Al’Ildic Ranger Corps."

Sindra’s gaze follows the floor of the tent, and brushes a stray hair behind her ear, before looking back up at the hag. “Cirimas was always his favorite historical figure and was like an idol to him. Used to always rant to me that one day he’d fight monsters just the same. I guess in the end he got his wish…huh. Trivian went off to fight in the war…. said he’d come back a hero. But he didn’t. Battle of the Pines, three years ago. That’s where he... well where he died. ” A tear wells up in Sindra’s eye that she quickly wipes it away in anger. 

Clearing her throat she continues, “Some years back we were snooping through our father’s belongings, or I guess rather he was dragging me into. We found out he’d fought in the Robertine Crusade- explained a lot really. I guess my father was never the same after. He’s not a fighter, never has been. But that didn’t stop my brother from enlisting himself in a war without true experience. A parchmenter’s son swinging a sword like he’d trained his whole life? As if practice in the mirror was the same as battle! My father tried to dissuade him but it was all the same.”

Sindra exhales softly, the weight of her words catching up to her all at once. “Sorry,” she mumbles, eyes dropping to her hands. “That was… a lot. I didn’t mean to go on like that.” She tries to laugh it off, but her voice falters under the strain. “I guess I just—he said it was time for me to leave. My father, I mean. Said the house was too quiet with just the two of us, and I -I think he meant it for me. I couldn’t sit in all that grief any longer anyway.” Her fingers twist around the edge of her sleeve again, picking at the thread. “I thought about going back to Númenost, but I think there’s too much of him there.” She glances up, voice quieter now. “Maybe Ravenmire, I don’t know. I’d need to find work—something with my hands, I suppose. I just stopped here for a bit. Just passing through. But you asked me my story and all I’ve mostly done is ramble about others. It’s like I’ve not been able to have my own story, but rather been the footnote in another’s if that makes sense? It’s a character flaw I guess you could say I’m working on.” Sindra chuckles looking at the hag. “I’ve been impolite though, what is your story? Or rather your name?”