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?))
Khyana would still, her very frame stiffening as she was addressed by this... impoverished, decrepit old bat. At first, she did not react. Certain her words were simply ill-timed, that she meant for some other equally dirty soul to come and squat on her tatty pillow. As the seconds drew on, she realised with a grim smile- this was not to be. Her expression blackened, eyes usually so dispassionate and distant were darkened with cobalt dancing in their teal. Her distaste, no, anger at being forced into this situation made crystal clear as she flickered her glare from the wrinkled face to the offered cushion before- with no small amount of trepidation, she would lower herself.
"I don't want to go home." She'd grit out finally. Her voice did not waver or give any indication of her current pitiful state, instead, it remained strong and clear holding the regal notes she'd been trained to use. "And you certainly will not make me." Her chin would raise defensively, keeping her eyes firmly upon the hag.
Upon receiving no reply, Khyana would shift uncomfortably once more, her lips pressed shut. In truth, her life and story was short and mostly positive. Khyana had been born strong; eyes awash with striking shades of teal, head full of silky yet unruly curls of sun-bleached blonde, and porcelain skin that pinkened but never darkened. Ignis took one look at her first daughter and with her last, strained breaths, reached for her. Trembling fingers brushed against her cheek as Khyana leeched the last warmth from her mother. Handing her over into the cold.
Varamyr, her father, was most pleased with her birth. He allowed her to curl her tiny fingers around his hand, considering her a worthy investment. A blessing bestowed upon him, no doubt due to his patience and unrelenting self-discipline. He funded her education, pushing and sculpting her into an elf worthy of their bloodline. She was merely an instrument of control; her time split between the endless pursuit of her father's approval whilst constantly being held to an unattainable standard. To be worthy of her name. To be worthy of her mother's sacrifice. To be worthy enough to carry both her sins, and her sister's. To be worthy of the recognition afforded to her brothers, but passed over her time and time again. All tantalizingly just beyond her reach. Khyana was prized but not loved, and she resented this. She wanted to attempt to find her own way, to discover her path freed from others' influence. To carve her name and mark into the world, and she had realised, for quite some time now- she could not do that from her pedestal.
She'd push to stand abruptly, turning to leave. In truth, she didn't know why she'd even entertained the unwashed crone. Her newfound freedom had clearly softened her, or at the very least made her seem more approachable to the impure masses that seemingly now, deemed themselves worthy enough to demand things from her. She would have to do better in the future.
