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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.” Sylven hesitates briefly for a moment before creeping slowly kneeling down and sitting on the cushion, the faint glow of the floating candles reflecting in his amber eyes lingered as he dropped his guard, with a new look in his eyes wandered around the tent; curiosity taking it's reign over his thoughts, he studied the old hag carefully, unsure how she could have been expecting him. “I suppose my journey has led me exactly where it needed to,” he says calmly, his left hand lightly pressing against his thigh whilst the other brushed a strand of silver hair from his face. “I was born far from here, in a quiet elven settlement tucked within the forests to the north. My people valued knowledge and discipline, but I always felt there was more to the world than the borders of our home. When I came of age, I chose to travel—to see places my kin only read about in old scrolls.” Sylven glances briefly toward the tent entrance, where the swamp’s mist drifts along. “Along the road I kept hearing whispers about this town. Strange things. Strange people. And… strange activities.” He returns his gaze to the crone. “So I came to see it for myself.” A small, curious smile crosses his face. “But what concerns me more is this…” he leans forward slightly. “How exactly were you expecting me?”

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.” Sylven hesitates briefly for a moment before creeping slowly kneeling down and sitting on the cushion, the faint glow of the floating candles reflecting in his amber eyes lingered as he dropped his guard, with a new look in his eyes wandered around the tent; curiosity taking it's reign over his thoughts, he studied the old hag carefully, unsure how she could have been expecting him. “I suppose my journey has led me exactly where it needed to,” he says calmly, his left hand lightly pressing against his thigh whilst the other brushed a strand of silver hair from his face. “I was born far from here, in a quiet elven settlement tucked within the forests to the north. My people valued knowledge and discipline, but I always felt there was more to the world than the borders of our home. When I came of age, I chose to travel—to see places my kin only read about in old scrolls.” Sylven glances briefly toward the tent entrance, where the swamp’s mist drifts along. “Along the road I kept hearing whispers about this town. Strange things. Strange people. And… strange activities.” He returns his gaze to the crone. “So I came to see it for myself.” A small, curious smile crosses his face. “But what concerns me more is this…” he leans forward slightly. “How exactly were you expecting me?”