They've just arrived in a swampy, dim town. As the stout Halfling looked around, his wiry-but-agile gaze is met with shacks and cabins. It smells of rotted wood and wet moss. Ducking into a tattered tent, illuminated by a series of candles suspended in the air, their vision greets to a shadow. 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, your desire." Deadly, he casts a glare to the shade in front of him, nose overstimulated with the smell of antiquities, papyrus and stain. A pointer finger takes the grey hay-like strands between its grasp and pulls away, desperate dark eyes accompanying his pale lips in notion, focus scooting; the man burns his retinas when he looks up from where he is staring, as the sun's rays pierce through the tattered holes once it plays a game of seek through the clouds. He inhales through his nose and exhales as he pulls his lips apart to answer the inquiry, ".. Greater than people who dismissed me." His voice... it's soft, silky like velvet. Yet his vocabulary is large, strong and sharp as if to attack anybody's ears. "... They have made me enervated, weak. I cannot comprehend how.. One could truly look at another and speak of power when in doubt, they have only pulled the first gentle branch from a copse. The forest yields many more opportunities, and I have yet to discover my potential in the shivering roots." He pulls his head aside, body drooping lethargically; shoulders bowing, he leans and melts into the cushion, comforted by the idea of a quill in his grasp as he strokes it's top feathers. "That is my aspiration. I wish to tell them what-of, not who I am.. But what capabilities I have gained…" He bites the end of the quill, ink slicking down his tongue and he ejects it from his mouth in utter distaste, shoulders keeling up as his palms face into the oracle's table--his eyes met the crystalline figure that stared back through it--and push him to his feet. "I can explain the unexplainable. I will not mourn the death of my ideas, nor will I traumatize my individuality with corrupt ineptitude of others here." He looks to the hag. And he shuffles to the book pile that melts into the pavement, pale skinny fingers caressing the bindings, and when he wraps his fingers around it he jests a little, "Might I inquire if you have ever touched a book, and felt the author's sorrow?" And he looks away, distant in thought as he stares at the tent's entrance. A slight frown besets on his face, and he falls quiet.
