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?))
Young Adonis takes in his hand his silver stringed harp. His classic instrument of his youth. "Strange, isn't it? That the fair wind has blown me so far from those distant enclaves and colonies of my people..." He strums the instrument, thinking wistfully on the solo notes. "It is good that now I have answered the call of my cousins and returned to the silvered land of my mothers. Great Haelun'or!"
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