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." Anarion eyes the hag, observing her weathered face with a slight raise of a brow. His gaze would shoot to the entrance once more before he exhaled quietly through his nose, his jaw clenched. He would move to the cushion and place himself upon it, his hands clasped within each other as he titled his head slightly at the woman. "I am Anarion and I come from a long lineage of the Numendedain."
The Adunian man sat straight and proud as he examined the hag, having proclaimed himself. The weathered face woman simply flashed a stained toothed grin, flicking her hand in the direction of Anarion, a gesture to continue.
"My father and his father and so on have all served under an Adunian. We, those they call the Men of the West, stay close together as our blood waters the meadows of this land." Anarion paused for a mere moment before lifting his eyes to match hers. "I was raised with what little we had, I helped forage when I was a child. Perhaps I thought myself as a Ranger from the stories of yore." The man let out a slight exhale and soft laugh. "There is little of noteworthiness to tell, I am afraid." He said humbly.
"There must be some ambition you hold for your life?" The crone cackled out, her head tilting either side of her shoulders as her cold eyes rattled against the man before her.
"Ambition is to be held with the utter most regard; for after all it is we, the sons of Harren, bear as our guilt. Ambition to do good may yet be twisted into evil, for wickness lies within each of our hearts." Anarion firmly stated, his jaw clenching once more. After the air had cleared after he spoke, he began once more following a sharp exhale from his nose. "I simply wish to help my kin survive and flourish. The White City holds that ability. For as long as we are led by a true son of the Numendedain, we shall find our place within this world."
The crone lifts a candle from her side and dances her finger around the flickering flame, shooting up her glance to the man. "You are humble with your words, young one. But you have much to learn of this world..."
"I will admit I am not a great master of some craft, a valiant warrior nor courageous leader... But I shall seek to be what is needed by my kinsmen. If that is to hammer the swords or wield the swords, so be it. My destiny is in the hands of God Almighty. Whatever his task for me upon this world I shall complete it." Anarion bows his head for a moment, before moving to lift himself from the cushion. "I must leave now, for this conversation is proving fruitless, Fae woman." He remained cold faced, frowning slightly before turning and leaving.
"And so, off he goes... What is in store for this young Adunian man, will he be cursed like his forebears and fall into the despair of the Harren curse..." The hag mumbled to herself, before long she errupted into a cackle, which sent shivers down the neck of Anarion - who was already a distance away from the tent.
