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.”
Lyle pushes the tent flap aside and steps into the heavy air, the smell of wet moss and rotting wood clinging to him. He straightens his shirt as if preparing for an unseen audience, then lowers himself carefully onto the cushion. For a moment he studies the candles swaying above, letting the silence stretch before he speaks.
"My story?" he says at last, a wry smile tugging at his mouth. "That’s a strange thing to ask a man who spends his life telling stories for others. My father is human, full of restless charm, my mother elven, graceful but distant. I never truly belong in either world, so I learn to become what people want to see. An actor. A chameleon. A face for every stage."
He leans forward, hazel eyes catching the flicker of candlelight. "I play kings in borrowed crowns, beggars in rags, fools that make crowds roar, and saints that bring them to tears. The roles change, the applause fades, but when the curtain falls it is always me again. Just Lyle. The half-elf who never quite fits, wandering on to whatever stage will take him."
The smile lingers, though there is something sharp behind it. "So if you’ve been expecting me, perhaps you already know the script I’m meant to follow here. And I want to hear what role you believe I step into now."
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