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?))
The condition outdoors had rendered her sodden and exhausted-- the humid marshland accompanied by the heavy rain has worked its way beneath her stolen garments, tempering her usually cautious nature. Lithuel accepts the kindness of the seat, of the flickering candles and soft warmth of the tent she now stands within. With little grace, she settles at the hag's invitation, and swallows. Surely, a story would be more than gracious payment for such reprieve.
"I am afraid my story is all too common and not at all interesting," she starts, unaware of how the glow of candlelight allows the loosening of her tongue. Her spine relaxes. "My Fyor passed, recently. Adunian, she was, and I fear it was not of natural means. Barely halfway into her first century, you see, and so-- well, I packed what little we had, and set about searching for a new home. I'm not all too fond of the idea of meeting the same fate as she. Cold as it may seem, survival should be my first thought, yes..?"
The ashen girl doesn't wait for a response. She's into her speech, now, all too easily dripping from her tongue as her clothes dry and the chill drains from her flesh. She does not notice the fog in her mind. "I came here, wondering if I might find direction. A settlement that would welcome one of my blood-- Adunian, yes, but also elven." The hag with her keen eyes surely had not missed the point to her elongated ears, nor the sharpness to hear features. Lithuel exhales, eyes heavy-lidded, "Though, first, perhaps I might rest by your fire..?"
