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?))
Ophelia sits resignedly on the seat opposite to the elderly woman. She sighs, lifting her face into the candle light to meet the crone's eye. When she tries to speak, she looks down and chuckles instead. "I'm not sure how to begin, really. I'm not sure I can say with certainty why I've come." (She pauses) "Well, I'm here now, and I mustn't waste your time. I am the daughter of a merchant; not a powerful man, but he was once rich -- I suppose one could argue that wealth and power are the same thing. I'm sorry. I don't mean to be immodest. In truth, my brother and were left destitute in the wake of his passing." (Another pause) "I bear my mother's name, but I cannot remember her: she died on my birthing bed. She was Ophelia -- such a plain name. It ought not to have been so. Her mother, my grandmother... was a high elf. I know nothing of her, only how forbidden the love between her and my grandfather must have been. In the end, she met the same fate as my mother. Ophelia. Such plainness was a gift, a protection.
That, friend, is where my story ends. I could tell you of the fields and rivers of my childhood; of my father's wares and my brother's horses; of the people I have had the fortune and the misfortune to love. But, I see now that I am not here to bestow you with those stories. I am certain you must know more, that you can reach into antiquity and tell me how all this has come about."
