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?))
He settled onto the cushion, stretching their legs beneath them, cloak still damp from the swamp air. Their expression remained calm, almost indifferent, but their voice carried a quiet steadiness.
“My story isn’t much,” He began. “I was born in a quiet grove, raised among the trees, like most elves. It was a simple life. Peaceful. Sometimes dull.”
“I suppose I was always the type to wander. I spent more time exploring the woods than sitting in lessons. There was this old well I used to visit—a collapsed one, really—mostly overgrown with moss and roots. I didn’t know who built it, and no one seemed to care. I just liked the quiet there. The sound of the wind through the leaves. The way it felt… still.”
He shrugged slightly.
“Nothing strange ever happened. I threw rocks in. Watched them bounce off the bottom. Once I slipped and scraped my hands on the moss-covered stone. That’s all. I just kept going back. It was a place I could think.”
He looked up at the hag with a faint, thoughtful frown.
“People like to say there’s meaning in everything. I don’t know. I think sometimes we just find places that stay with us.”
He folded their hands.
“So if you’re expecting some tale of omens or signs… you won’t find it here. I’ve seen a lot, traveled far, and all I’ve learned that sometimes, the world is quiet. And that’s enough.”
"Oh, I just, uh…" you stutter, tensing up. You eye the crone, then back outside the tent. For a moment, the air thickens with anticipation, until…
