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?))
She hesitates, studying the old woman to gather the information she stood to gain from observing her. The High Elf slyly bites a small part of the inside of her cheek, debating her response towards the old hag. Finally, the words inside her head piece together like a jigsaw puzzle, where she could conceal enough to hopefully receive the help she needs without revealing too much.
"My mother is hiding away my father and has chased me out of my home. I cannot see him, and she has made a false name of me. I can no longer step foot in my own city without the guards chasing me, hoping to capture the hands that have shed no blood. I've come for help, please tell me I have not wasted this journey."
The pitiful High Elf felt the palm of her hands cry their own song as she clenched hard enough for the imprints of her nails to leave small crescent marks that drew blood. At any moment she could break, she couldn't understand why any of this was happening to her, how her mother's pride as a High Elf could allow her to go to extremes such as this.
