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?))
The high elf stops to ponder for a moment, unsure of whether the person asking them the question can be trusted. She resolves to speak only in half truths, saying simply. "My story is simple. I'm a High Elf, a mali'aheral, just like any other. My mom and dad, my haelun and maln were working class elves in our little village. My father was a smith, and my mother raised me and my siblings."
The elf pauses for a moment, thinking perhaps she's been too honest. "I wandered away from home today in search of a frog. I read a story that once that a boy kissed a frog and turned into a prince. I figured I might try my luck. I wasn't born a princess but I've always wanted to be."
