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.”
Yera comes to a sudden and complete stop, the hem of her robe buffeting against her ankles with a ferocity seen on the daily in her practice with a blade. The unorthadox elf frowns, a fiery light to her eyes as annoyance at meeting such a person, a stranger, having the audacity to demand her story. Rather than stand, she stepped forwards, a domineering atmosphere following her like a cloud.
"What gives you the right to demand anything of me? Ikru- Foolish woman." She corrects herself, as she slipped into the Ancient Elven she had been practicing non-stop for the last few months. Something that she had seen as necessary if she wished to pursue her crafts further.
On getting no response from the old hag, a knowing smile on the womans face, Yera wrinkled her nose in further annoyance, before finally sighing. She dropped her bags upon the ground, the adventuring and travelling young Elf not wanting to stay standing all day.
"Whatever, where's the nearest tavern and workshop 'valah'?"
Gaining nothing much of value and likely offending the old lady more than just a little, she eventually trudged towards one of the larger looking shacks with a foul mood and pained feet from days of walking. An intricate headpiece in her hair carved with intricate letters and the hilt of a large sword on her back, the only indicators of the past she ran from - or the heritage she ran towards.
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