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?))
Azulua took a steadying breath, her emerald eyes catching the light as she brushed a leaf-woven braid back. The faint scent of moss marked her as Mali’ame. “I’m Azulua, a wood elf,” she said, a shy smile breaking through. “No long-winded tale of my childhood—I’ll spare you that.” “My father was a wanderer, a son of Cernunnos,” she went on, voice warming. “His stories lit up our glade—hidden groves, spirits guarding ancient relics, fights to protect the wilds. I’d listen, dreaming of my own tale to match his. Those words set my heart ablaze.” She touched her quiver, a gift from him. “I learned the forest’s ways—tracking, archery—but it wasn’t enough. Some kin called me restless, too much like my father. When the wilds whispered Go, I listened. At my coming of age, I left with a bow and a dream to honor him and the Aspects.” Her gaze sparked. “I’ve roamed misty valleys, heard tales of ruins older than the Aspects. That’s why I’m here—this town feels alive with promise. My story’s just starting, and I can’t wait to see where Aevos’ winds lead me next.”
