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 exhales. Slowly. The swamp smells of dampened mold and stale air. He prefers it now to marble halls and speeches like stale wine.
"Born of the House Aerandir, ma'am" he proclaimed at last, voice low, almost gentle. "The bowstring runs in our blood, as does duty. The Aerandir kin stood guard at the borders of Eryn Lasgalen since before the world was wounded. His father still does to this day." he adds.
He glances at the candlelight, eyes reflecting the flame. "We were never high lords, but ours was a name old enough to carry weight as a High Elf. Enough to raise soldiers, but not enough to speak freely within the king's court unfortunately." He says, somberly.
He lifts his shirt and absently to the scarb eneath his collarbone -- a line drawn long ago by a Morgul blade, its ache still lingeirng in cold mornings.
"He served in the nothern campaign. A younger son, eager, foolish perhaps. He bled for the realm. Watched too many kin burn for causes that would change their name each season that passed. He saw valor get twisted into ceremony. Orders passed down by lords who had never seen a day of combat, the enemies eyes even. We followed them anyway." He boasts.
He pauses. The tent is quiet but for the candle flames.
"Then came the wound," He continues. It festered, slow. Not just in his body, but in the trust he had seewn into the banners of our kingdom. When they thanked him with silence and sent him home with a limp and new insignia - one that he was nolonger fit to lead - he left. he bowed. he left."
he glances at her, eyes dark like the deep wood in the winter wind.
"Now he tends the forest he was born beneath. He moves quiet. He hunts alone. He lives for his kin, not for thrones. His bow answers only to his own hand. His sword, when drawn, is not for kings anymore."
She watches. She does not interrupt. The candlelight flickers against the wet canvas above, and the swamp shifts beyond, old and unbothered.
He spoke again, more softly now.
"This place smells of the damp wood rot and bugs. But he thinks he prefers it here. At least here, the rot is honest."
