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.”
The dark elf of a taller stature peered down at the old hag with a strange look, a brow lofted curiously at her choice in words - yet not quite acting on his intrigue. “My story?” He muses, his echo taking the form of a thoughtful hum as enchanting olive hues shifted to the hovering candles. “I come from a far-off land, plains upon plains absorbed by a Kingdom of yore. Lands ruled by a tyrant too afraid of what may be bigger than he.” “My village was quaint; the people were passionate. Our libraries had candles similar to these. Transfiguration, is it? That makes them float. My teacher had yet to teach me – proclaimed I was a prodigy amongst my kind. I was granted the gift of knowledge, yet nobody dared to teach my magic.”
