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 high elf pauses at the threshold, the flickering candlelight dancing across his pale skin. His gaze narrows briefly as he almost hesitates to sit down. His boots sink slightly into the damp ground beneath the tent, leaving faint prints as he crosses to the cushion directly across from the woman. He crossed his legs, taking in a deep breath.
“My story?” he says, voice low, a touch hoarse from long travel. “It is no simple tale. I was not born for the road, yet the road has claimed me all the same. From marble halls where every word was polished and weighed, I slipped away into shadow, into exile of my own choosing. I sought truth beyond gilded lies, and in my search I found.." He'd pause, his eyes trailing over to the woman's mouth as her thin lips twisted into a grin.
He leans forward, resting an elbow on his knee, the strap across his chest creaking softly as his gear shifts. “If you truly have been expecting me, then you know what I carry. Not riches. Not titles. But questions with no answer."
