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?))
Faramir promptly sat down, folding his hands into his sleeves neatly as his legs crossed over each other. His nose scrunched up at the smell wafting into his nostrils, slowly but surely getting used to the tent's musk. "Of course," The Elf dipped his head towards the hag before straightening his posture to a picture perfect standard. From then on, he began to explain the ancient woman. "My old town was far too familiar, horrible run ins with my family which I cannot let happen again." - "I hope to seek refuge here, and I pray you'll let me stay without tattling." His brows tucked into a worried expression mixed with sadness. "Oh, how I can imagine their rage if they find me.."
