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.” Liora:
She sat down on the cushion the madam gestured to, stuttering as she began to speak, unsure of how to word her past and her life before settling down in the mountain nearby this dim-lit town.
"Madam, I am unsure of who you are, unsure of why you ask, but if you must know, I am Liora, Liora Maeve Brighthall. I was born into a small, quiet halfling town where everyone knew everyone. We halflings in that town were very sheltered from every danger. The children, including myself, were curious about the forests nearby—the noises we heard, why the adults kept us so sheltered. The day the children ventured into the forest, we weren't sure what was there. We weren't aware that the growling and snarling were dangerous. The drool dripping down the pack of wolves' mouths was enough to scar us forever. We didn't listen to the adults when we should've, Madam. That day, almost half of the town ended up six feet under. Over the years, we children became the adults warning the next generation, but as kids do,
they don't listen. I assume you know the rest, Madam. I am the last halfling of that town. I have seen enough death in my life. I want to learn healing magic so others don't end up the way my town did."
She decided to order herself and the madam a round of drinks.
