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?)) A slender, cloaked man eyes the hag with the wild mistrust of cautious prey. He slowly creeps to a seat, maintaining eye contact and a stick straight spine. He steals a paranoid glance over his shoulder before he speaks. It is clear now the man is young. "Look," he all but growls at the hag. "I'm sure you know more than I'd like already. I don't trust you, or this place..." The scowling elf's jaw clenches tightly as he exhales a deep huff. "But I'm out of options. My name is Aster Pinebough, and my being here is life or death. The great tree that gives food and shelter to my people is slowly dying, and no shaman or druid for leagues around can tell me why." The man's anger subtly dissolves into desperation as he speaks.
"But you-" He starts, slowly catching the eyes of the hag. "You, so surrounded by the woods, by death and darkness- you must have something to tell me. So?" The young man has become almost frantic in his mission. "Help my people, o hag of the marsh. If not, bloodlines could die with that tree." For the first time, the youth looks non-combative. His eyes beg. "Please."
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