You’ve just arrived in a swampy, dim town. As you look around, your gaze is met with shacks and cabins. It smells of rotted wood and wet moss. You 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.”
Looking at the crone with one eyebrow raised in confusion and interest, Liriel would hesitantly sit down cross-legged on the cushion, shifting uncomfortably as she takes in the dirtiness of the tent and the surrounding area. She looks back at the exit of the tent, questioning herself if she should leave or not, but if this hag was expecting her, she might as well share what she can. She looks at the hag, places her hands in her lap, and then lets out a sigh as she thinks of what to say.
"Well, there's not much of a story to tell. I come from Ramasar in search of knowledge. All knowledge, in fact." She would begin to lean back, looking up at the ceiling of the tent. "Every century, we lose generations of history from our ancestors. Crucial historical knowledge is lost and forgotten."
She sits upright once again, making eye contact with the hag. "If I dedicate my life to finding and remembering this lost information, then I can pass it on to younger generations in my death, where it won't be forgotten. At least not for another few hundred years. Though perhaps I'm simply making an excuse for my love of, well, everything."
