PizzaSpy35

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.”
 

"My story?" Tessalyn pauses. She had never really thought of her own story. As a scribe, she followed the stories of others. That was her story, her purpose, her calling was the interest of others' stories and ensuring their stories were told. Everyone's stories should be told. So, how come she never thought of her own story?

She eyed the hag suspiciously. What a curious question! "I'm following the stories of others, I suppose. I'm making up my story on the way," she said as she chuckled. "I'm actually here for your story, though."

As Tessalyn pulled her pen from her skirt, preparing to document the life of the small town, she thought about her own story a bit further. Later that night, she made sure to write it down.

Backstory:

I guess my story started roughly 18 years ago, she wrote under the candlelight. As I aged and began making friends within my tribe, I realized how cool their stories were. I loved hearing about the trials my friends underwent, even at the age of three. Originally, I thought I always wanted to be an author and write fictional books, as me and my friends did. However, I realized that every story I wrote was inspired by another. A real story. That's when it struck me that to continue inspiring stories, someone needs to write down the real stories. I never felt my life was interesting enough, as I had a loving family, supportive tribe, and very little conflict with the outside world. So after wrapping up my studies one year ago, I began traveling Aevos, looking for new stories to tell and bring back to my people. 

My life as a child was better than most. As the youngest of three, which was on the higher end of the average children elves typically conceive, I watched my siblings grow up through their eventful lives. Giving me stories to write of their loves, connections with nature, and their relationship with the tribe, they married off rather quickly. As the only female, though, many were interested in my family, as we were both fairly well off, and any elf that can conceive more than two children is heavily sought after. After all, as a result of the curse, most could only conceive 1-4 [per Tolkien] children. Any female who may be able to contribute enough children to keep the population growing is automatically prioritized, even if my family wasn't necessarily exceptionally fertile. Just on the higher end of average.

My parents, fortunately, guarded me from these suitors, some of whom were both unpleased and inappropriately aged. It wasn't until my studies ended that it became unbearable to me. Even though eventually, many had given up seeking my hand, other elven women would gossip. Older elves would ask me when I'd settle down and begin producing offspring. Perhaps something is wrong with me, or perhaps I have a feeling I'm destined for something greater than being a baby machine.

After adventuring for a year, collecting stories and attempting to make a name for myself, I came across this swampy, dim town.