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?))
Filthy claw-like nails scrap upon the tent's canvas as he raises the entry flaps above his head slowly, the soft candlelight illuminating the fleeting furrow of his thick brow.. the sour tinge scrunching his hooked nose. He enters and exhales, failing to mask his simmering anticipation and uneasy composure before the wicked hag.
"Very well," he croaks.. and nods downward at the hag's request, striding toward the cushion he slowly sinks into the chair's peeling cushion. "Arzgan Drachmori is the name given to me, a lineage of dark elves in the business of all things cavalry and stable mastery."
Sure enough the man did not wear clothes of elegance or flash, simple woven tan tunic and grimey mucky leather riding chaps. A simple wooden bow was slung over his shoulder and a small sack on the right of his hip, tightly strung to his black leather belt.
He leans further back within the chair's embrace, slowly acclimating to his daft surroundings and situation.. the tenor in his voice coming back into one of sly confidence. "I wish not stay here long.. a missing horse brings me here, one I alone am responsible for reclaiming.. this is the last of my leads. Typical rustlers, horse-thieving.. not a new challenge for me, but.. not any less of a thorn in my side."
He then gazes directly bag into the hag's own chilling eyes, awaiting her response patiently.
