Nebulaic Spectre

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?)) Artano was busy taking in his surroundings, not being perpetually aware of the lesser being attempting to attract his attention. He dusted his padded shoulder, he had been particularly careful in choosing his outfit to present himself as esteemed no matter the location before his view finally snapped to the hag, "My business as a Mali'thill need not concern one such as yourself in understanding or function." He spoke in a rather cold and monologuing tone, though it could only be expected. He made the point of not sitting down on the cushion, instead moving about the tent and ducking towards the curiosities no doubt held within. He held one hand behind his back as he used the other to stroke his chin, his leather eye-patch glinting in the light of the suspended candles before continuing his speech; "When I read of your settlement, I was under the impression from the tone of the small amount of existent literature that you were belonging to an area of... Higher calibre. You understand my surprise as I arrive in your... Quaint, small, floating, quaint town." He dragged two fingers along a shelf, inspecting for dust. He stood by the doorway, "Van'ayla Valah. You understand if I seek accommodation elsewhere I am sure, perhaps on the boat I arrived." Without almost another word, the Mali'thill took off, stepping out the curtained door and leaving the tattered tent in his rear view. He was intent on headed back to where he arrived, identifying it as the only suitable accommodation likely available.