crowster

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?)) The old elf grunts, glaring at the hag with furrowed, bushy brows. He studies the odd tent, considering simply hobbling away, but the eerie looming magic of the suspended candles keep him in place. One should leave people with the magic to create floating candles alone, and you were simply better off complying with their wishes in the majority of cases; a lesson he had learned many moons ago. He hobbles over and hesitantly takes a seat on the cushion, a grunt escaping him as his creaky joints settle in place on the muddy floor. He frowns. "You know, you should really invest in some more dignified seating," he grumbles to himself, heavy mustache hopping along with every word he speaks. "Back in my day you'd never expect a guest to sit on something as primitive as a simple cushion on the floor!" he wags a stern finger, settling into the small piece of stuffed fabric as he looks around the dimly lit room, ducking under a floating candle. "Oh, dear Malin, good thing I dont have any hair left to lose!" he exclaims, patting his silver mustache. "And what are you, anyways? Some sort of orc? A halfling, perhaps?" he studies the old hag, wrinkled blue eyes squinted into judgemental slits. "In the name of Malin, never have I..." the old man grumbles to himself, shaking his head. "Such cushions aren't designed for old hips, like mine" he complains, adjusting his green tie with shaky hands. "I am Mar'maln Elsioln'illera. You may have heard of my family," he begins, waving a hand dismissively. "Back in the day, we were well known indeed..." he trails off, staring out into the stuffy air of the rickety tent for a moment or two. "We are High Elves; pure. Thill. Mali'thill. My son and his wife are excellent musicians, you may have heard of them," he grins proudly. "Married late, but at least he found a nice High Elf to marry, none of that mixed marriage humbug," Mar'maln Elsioln'illera shakes his head, waving his hands demonstratively with a sour expression on his face, deepening his already apparent wrinkles. "And their son, Lente... He's the one who dragged me out here. I can't just leave the young fella to his own devices, but since his parents... well, we don't have to talk about him, he's quite the interesting chap to put it that way," he squints again, brows furrowing deeper. He kisses his teeth, pausing for a moment. "I used to go by another name, you know, back when I was a youngster," he changes the subject, not so discreetly, with the wave of a hand. "I hardly even remember it now; Mar'maln is grandfather in elvish, did you know? Haha, most of the young elves picked it up as a habit long ago, and it seems to have stuck!" the old elf chuckles, and settles back down with a sigh. "It is like that with a lot of things now, forgetting, I mean," his smile stiffens. "It comes with age, I presume. All the memories muddling together into a big mess," he begins to fidget with the cuffs of his pale white sleeves, turning the golden button between his rough fingers. "For Malin's sake, I barely even remember the face of my wife these days.." the desperate attempt at a lighthearted joke only fills the room with the suffocating tint of a deep, buried sadness. "Well, no use dwelling on it much, hey? From one well experienced fella to another," Mar'maln gives a light chuckle. "It's the fate for all of us elves, a curse disguised as a blessing some would say," he tilts his head, bald scalp glistening in the dim lighting of the swampy town. "At some point, you begin to forget which cities have fallen and which are still standing, everything simply tangles together," the old man sighs, placing his palms on his knees. "I don't have many other stories to tell you, not any that will make much sense, that is."