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?))
Sirame'ha made her way over to the older woman, twigs and dirt crunched underfoot at her approach. In a self-soothing gesture, her stiff hands rubbed the length of her arms. In the Woods it was often you encountered strange phenomena and people - this must be no different. If this ancient hag had been waiting on her arrival, Sirame'ha trusted Cernunnos to guide her forth down the correct path. Through stiff, wary movements, she sat upon the offered cushion. The fabric of her long, layered pants folded beneath her unceremoniously. She was closer to the stranger than what was necessary, and with a keen eye on them, she began to talk.
"Karin'ayla illir," recited her tongue. A friendly, elvish greeting. "You wish for me to privy my tales and hark a good story. I am afraid you will find no grand exploits or adventures here." As she spoke her words came out sharp. They would have felt piercing if her tone was not so calm. Like a tree. Rigid, yet still. "I am but a simple weapon smith. I carve a fine sword hilt, but arrows are my true calling. A woodworker, if you will. While my craft plays well to the battlefield, I have, for the most, left that scene behind me. I craft them for the Arts now."
The hag could pinpoint Sirame'ha's pointed ears - the bracelet of tattoos around her wrists, and the nature-hues of both her clothes and appearance. It was clear she was a Mali’ame. A wood elf. It was rather common for them to have skill in woodworking, or know their way around a bow.
"I venture out from my Seed to find two things. Oem, I search for a type of metal not found in my region. To work with something new, to achieve a new look for my art - that is my goal. Thus, niut, to find one good with metals. I cannot man a forge in my condition." As she spoke, her arms remained still, her hands planted on her lap. There was not a fidget. It gave the illusion she was carefully guarded. A keen eye might have noticed her prior stiff movements, though. Perhaps that hinted towards this 'condition' she spoke of. What her ailment was exactly, she did not say.
In truth, she had once been a fine archer, with the skill to shoot through thick foliage and still hit her mark. Sirame'ha held a bow so often it felt like a third limb. That ended when in one particular battle she escaped injured. The nerves of her dominant hand had been pierced by a sword. She could still carve, still hold a knife, but anything that required weight proved impossible now. It takes incredible strength to pull back a bow. It used a lot of power to bend metal to your will. Sirame'ha could not continue her calling - not even in decoration alone, making art, without outside assistance. From archer, to woodworker, to temporary traveler. She had changed professions a few times, but at her core, she remained rather plain.
Elves rarely had large family and hers was no different. The only child of two guards, she grew up with training regiments and hunting parties. Though, her mother did fancy herself a good book in her downtime. Sirame'ha was raised upon stories, the woods, and faith for their deities.
