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?))
Denve'er freezes, a deer caught in headlights with wide eyes, halfway expecting to be attacked. He relaxes soon after, dipping his head in a quick greeting, eyes lingering on the floor. "Just travelling," he whispers, clutching the handle of a shoulder bag close to his chest. "And... looking to find a friend. You haven't seen her, have you?"
He hesitates again for a long moment, silence drawn out into a painfully awkward scene. "Oh-- I see." Sitting, Denve'er tucks his legs under him, hands balled up on his lap. Ready to pick up and run at any time. "My mother brought me out here. She... said the Silver City wasn't home for her, that she didn't want to raise a child surrounded by hate. She had me on the road, I believe. Though I'm not quite sure where... he died when I was young. When they called upon elven warriors. I was young, I didn't understand at the time." Denve'er raises a hand, waving it in quiet dismissal towards himself. "Then... well... we kept moving. She told me things, about the druids, the conclave... I want to join them one day."
For the first time, he looks up with some spark in his eyes. A flicker of determination brought on by naivety. "Will you help me?"
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