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?))
P'targnan is hesitant at first, but he could feel the call that dragged him to this tent urging him to sit down. If it was fate, then he could not deny it, so, pulling his hair over his shoulder he sits down across from the old hag. He sits proper and prim, with his back straight and his head high. "My story is one of old time. It's common I'm sure, my name is P'targnan De Fartinian, I'm the son of two Noble High Elves, but I wish not to be." The truth that spills from his is shocking, but he continues nonetheless. "I did not want a life like my parents wanted for me, ever since I was a child I've read stories and tales of adventurers traveling the land. I want that, I want that excitement, so two weeks ago I've left my family home. I didn't tell my parents cause I knew they would throw a fit, but they know I am on the road, and they know I'm safe, I'm sure of it."
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