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?))
"My story?" The elven woman ponders for a moment, her odd eyes gazing about the dimly lit tent, resting on the old hag sitting in the back of the tent, a toothy snarl on her cracked lips. Being so unused to traveling, the young woman shook the mud from her leggings and raised an eyebrow. "What use is there in me telling you my story? I am sure you already know it."
If the woman knew her life's story, she was more than ready to hear about it. Otherwise, she had no need to talk to a stranger surrounded by candles in the middle of a rotting swamp village.
With a sigh, she didn't wait for the woman to open her mouth to answer and said shortly, "Fine....here is my story, if you must hear of it. I am a Elven woman who was cast from her home. My family was once rich, established as you might say. Now, I am worth nothing more than a shilling for a bowl of porridge." A snicked crossed her pretty lips as she continued. "I am Mirevas. The only child of the stuck up old coot who is still searching for me. All I want now is to have a home, to take care of animals, and to be left alone. Alone to have a farm, to raise a family, where ever that may take me." Her eyes became foggy as her mind trailed off, memories sore in her mind.
"Is that all you have to know of me, or do you wish to know whose blood I have drawn to be here?"
