You’ve just arrived in a swampy, dim town. As you look around, your gaze is met with shacks and cabins. It smells of rotted wood and wet moss. You 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?))
“Wery well listens closely”
she sits and talks a deep breath
“I was born to a modest clan of smiths, Bea was of a northern tribe of proto-elves.”
”In my youth I would play with the young elven children of my commune.”
“When I grew into adolescence, my father took me as an apprentice.
The winters were harsh, but they always endured, I would slave away for hours honing my craft under the tutelage of my father.”
she takes another breath
“Soon enough I rose and past my trial of age, the elders of my tribe content and their expectations exceeded with my studies.”
She starts to tear up
“This jovial time of celebration would not be long however, a winter would come, greater and harsher than before. It would push me tribe to the brink of collapse, so in a last ditch effort I and one other took off and traveled south in hopes to find aid.”
She srugs off the pain and asks
“What about you”
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