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.”
The young elf sits with his legs crossed and the spine slightly curved forward. Then coughs a couple of times and scratches his beard. Despite the natural grace and composure of his sylvan brothers, Taurion has always been the exception to the rule since he was little.
"Ehm, My story? You mean, since i came to this world? Or maybe when i had enough self-consciousness to understand my life and the world around me."
The old hag stares at the elf with a piercing expression, without uttering a word, not even blinking.
"Well, ejem... —Taurion coughs again, for the third time since he enters the tent, and the witch thinks he has a cold from the swamp's dampness—. I come from beyond the jagged mountains of the East. Certainly a long walk. A friend of mine told me there is a sort of a witch in here that could help me with a problem. Now something tells me i came to the right place and that you are the witch i am looking for, so i humbly ask for your help."
The woman turns her head, revealing his bald crown. After rummaging through his belongings, she pulls out a dusty book bound in green leather: Here's the help you're looking for, my dear hunk.
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