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?)) The elf lowers his gaze to stare at the old woman, raising both arms to clamp around his own biceps. He didn't believe the woman to mean any harm-- but even then, he would be unable to defend himself if such a situation were to occur. Against his better judgement, he took a seat on the cushion that his attention had been guided to. He brought his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them while resting his chin on his knees.
``I don't know where I am,`` Elluin replied, voice raspy and dry. ``I don't know who I am-- What I am... I see those that are different from me... And I cannot name their origin...`` His thin hands picked at the loose threads on his clothing. His physique could be described as something akin to a set of twigs, all bundled together in a disorderly fashion. His hair was knotted and stringy, caked in blood and dirt. It was clear that life hadn't treated him well. He had been faced with a moderate brain injury, severing himself from who he truly is. All he was left with was the clothing on his back.
