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?))
Marela swiftly turned her eyes back on the old lady. My Story?, she thought. She looked at the cushion to make sure it's not covered in dirt and ran her hands over the white dress before she sat down and adjusted it. I don't like such questions, she thought and tried to figure an answer. There are too many ways of answering it.
"Perhaps, it is not really a story. It's rather the urge to explore what has been hidden from me until now." She replied. And maybe also to find out if the other dweller on this earth are really what she's been told. Even though she already has enough of this rotten smell.
Marela grew up isolated from any other race than High Elves. She has met a few wood and dark elves but never quite had time to really get to know them. After twentythree years she has decided to escape her families grip and rules and travel the unknown world.
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