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?))
Caryanau can't help but wrinkle their nose as they stepped onto old cobbled streets. The stench of mildew and damp hit their nose like a soured linen. The sun sets behind a tree line casting deep shadows in the swamp town. The heat would finally mellow out, though the humidity would continue to warm the town. Caryanau wasn't planning on making a trip to such a town. The place was desolate with very few people milling about though that may be because the fishermen are already retiring to bed to be up before the morning comes. A pair of children pause in their game of sticks to watch as the tall elf walks along the street. Caryanau understood their stares. They stuck out like a cloud in a otherwise empty blue sky. Their white traveling cloak and silver hair popped quite well against the dark woods. But, they passed by the children after noting that their faces weren't thin.
Desolate but not poor.
The elf makes their way to a tent where an elder would hopefully be able to answer their questions. The tent was dyed purple with several different threads of embroidery lining the edges. Caryanau lifted the cotton before ducking to step inside. An old woman sat, knelt in a pit of cushions and rugs with a measly wooden table and too many candles lit at once. Caryanau thought the stench of rotting wood and sour fish was bad? The onslaught of sandalwood, cinnamon, and citrus hit their nose like a train. Caryanau lets the tent open for a bit to allow the smoke and incense leave the enclosed space. It seemed the woman did not mind. Caryanau knelt on a cushion as the woman asked, sitting on their right side and tucking their legs to the left. A habit, perhaps, to be seen in a dignified way. Another so that they could quickly sweep to their feet in the case of an unwanted presence.
"Madam," Caryanau begins, the language thick on their tongue and slow with disuse, "If I am correct, you have already seen what must be known? My mother's secrets are what I seek."
A mother who had died during childbirth due to the unfortunate curse placed on them all. Their father had died shortly after due to the loss of his soulmate. Tragic, but Caryanau had separated themselves from it. What is there to miss if you never had it in the first place? But, their father journaled often. During the three years after their mother's death, their father had journaled quite extensively. As heartache consumed him, his writing had gotten almost illegible. There were many ripped out pages and other writings that referenced something on those pages. Incomplete but with a mystery. Their mother had been an alchemist of sorts. She had worked on some type of material that had helped increase fertility, though it was rare and dangerous. The name of which was gone with only rumors of its existence within the journals. Caryanau was seeing the witch before them to find out the location of their mother's apothecary.
