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.”
"I'm grateful for your hospitality," Inansha nodded in thanks, placing his satchel by the tent's entrace and drew the flaps shut - as much as the tattered cloth would allow - to shield from the biting wind. "I hope I did not keep you waiting."
He stepped further into the tent surrounded by the flickering candle light that cast a golden glow upon the elder's humble abode. The flames were strong, untouched by the wind and he wondered if the woman was similarly immune. The ground beneath his feet was inexplicably warm despite the frigid wetness that blanketed the earth outside. Somehow the tent was isolated from the harsh weather and Inansha had an inkling that extraordinary forces were at play, though he said nothing.
His knees sank into the plush cushion. It reminded him of the winters he sat with his mother on the earthen floors of home, soaking dried honeysuckle vines in clay pots, and spending hours weaving them into baskets to use for foraging in spring. "I assume you wanted to know why an 'ame - wood elf - like myself lacks the markings of his seed." Inansha's voice trailed off, "I, too, have wondered why at times."
Inansha rubbed his forearms in thought, ever more conscious of his unmarked skin - plain, without ink, without proud scars. Without history.
"I don't blame my mother," he said, "She was not born into the Wild Faith, nor the nomadic life my late father led. It must have been difficult to raise me alone in the forests and I know she had her reasons for not wanting to bring me into the more ... rigid ... society she was used to." Inansha glanced at the elder. She may not be mali, but wisdom is familiar with age and with it comes potent understanding.
"My mother always encouraged my curiosities and when it came time, she urged me to seek the answers to my questions of the world, the truths, the people," he said, voice tinged with youthful wonder. "Though..."
"...Though she also told me that answers cannot be unveiled within the confines of one's home." He fiddled with the hem of his mother's cloak, its frayed edges a comforting touch beneath his fingers and the threads of white ink that spread from the tips to form the roots and branches of Cerridwyn's tree that patterened the grey fabric.
Inansha's eyes shone, the dancing flames of candlelight captured within violet pools. "So I surrendered myself to the world and left home with the blessings of my mother."
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