Your character has just arrived in a swampy, dim town. As they look around, their gaze is met with shacks and cabins. It smells of rotted wood and wet moss. They 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?))
Sylthera waltzed forward with little difficulty, her robe swaying at her ankles, through the clutter of the tent to sit on the cushion. She sat with her back straight and head raised, awkwardness leaking through her elegance as the crone analyzed her. Sylthera tapped her fingers on her knee as took a deep breath before her tale began. "I am Sylthera Vaeloris, daughter of Eryndor Vaeloris, from Haelun'or. I am on my way to meet with my mother, a Wood Elf. Though, this is only an excuse. I have longed to travel to meet all kinds of people." She pauses her speaking to take a breath, "My father has agreed to let me leave, on the occasion that when I returned I marry another High Elf.." She finishes, her shoulders slumping slightly. "Though, I do not intend to do so." She murmurs.
