How about a light-hearted @Wizards_DnD style game to help pass the time?

We start inside the Noble Badger Tavern, a cozy little hide-away situated off the main road in a thick and gloomy forest rumored to be haunted by all manner of undead.

It’s been a long day ...

As you step through the doors of the Noble Badger Tavern, a fire crackles in the hearth. The warmth & smell of woodsmoke settles into your clothes. There’s a bar toward the back stocked with liquor. A crimson-eyes elf with a notably pallid complexion polishes a glass.

As you take in your surroundings, rolling from your shoulders the aches of the road, do you:

You make your way to the fire. Its warm, cheery crackle merges with the murmur of the tavern’s patrons, and you feel yourself relax for the first time in what seems like days. You ease your pack from your shoulders and loosen some of your armor’s straps.

A diminutive woman slips from a bench behind you and puts a fresh log on the fire. Embers swirl and spit as she adjusts its placement, angling it just so. Satisfied with her work, she steps back and gives you a gap-toothed grin.

Her bright eyes crinkle in a face weathered to the approximate shade of the wood on the fire. Her clothing seems homespun, all earth-tones save for a scarf of vibrant blue. She looks at you expectantly. Do you:

You choose to say hello.

“Yer a new face,” she says. Her voice is high and bright, cheery as the fire. “I won’t ask where ya come from. Most don’t tell. Important thing? You’re here now. Welcome to my second home. I’m Urla.” She waggles crooked fingers.

Urla grabs her skirts in one knotted hand and clambers back onto her bench. Once settled, she smooths the homespun fabric with a little self-conscious gesture.

“My first home is there in the fire.” She sighs. “Gonna miss that tree.”

Urla falls silent, her gaze turned from you to the dancing flames. The sounds of conversation swell around you. A barking laugh. The slam of a glass on the bar. The gruff tones of a breastplated warrior as he recounts some grand conquest to all who listen.

As the fire in the hearth slowly consumes the new log, do you:

You gently interrupt what clearly is a pensive moment for her and ask Urla about her tree. She gestures to the dwindling pile of freshly chopped wood beside the hearth.

“Twas a magnificent tree,” she says. “Three hundred years we stood in this forest.”

Adjusting the scarf at her throat, she continues, “Can’t go far, but ya witness lots in three hundred years. Woulda been three hundred fourteen this summer.” She turns a wistful smile on you. “We were a late bloomer, ya see. Took our time sprouting after a long winter.”

At your expression, she says, “Ah, haven’t met a dryad before, I see. Probably expecting some willowy lass.” She chuckles. “Oh, I was that, once, all sultry and slim. But time changes us. Decades turn to centuries and yer bark grows thick. And here I am now, all knots and burls.”

“It was the storm that did us in,” Urla continues. “Last one blew through like the judgment of the gods. And the soil in my bank had been growing thin with all the rain - we’ve had such bad storms these past few years. Just couldn’t hold my crown up anymore. Down we crackled —

“A tree holds on through a lot of damage. But I knew when my big branch split, it was only a matter of time. So I gathered up a few of my precious children and came in here with an offer to light the tavern I’ve looked at for the past hundred years.”

She smooths her skirts and something clacks softly in the pockets of her apron. “Oh, don’t fret for me. I’ve given shelter to so many little beings through all the long years. This is a good choice. One last gift. I’ve always loved to provide.”

A mighty pop from the log on the hearth sends a hail of sparks swirling up the flue. When you turn back, Urla has quitted her bench to stand nearer to you.

“Could I ask a favor?”

Do you:

You ask Urla about her favor.

She reaches into the pocket of her apron and withdraws a heart-shaped nut, its shell pale as paper. She holds it out to you, cradled in the lined palm of her hand.

“Would you plant one of my children somewhere far away from here?”

“I can’t travel much beyond the root system of my tree, and the soil here’s grown too wet. Everyone’s roots are rotting, the soil sodden by too much rain. But you travel this wide world, don’t you? Could you give this one a life maybe on some sunny hill?”

“Water’s key. There must be rain, but not too much.” She pats the apron-pocket with her free hand, the soft clack and rattle of her remaining children just audible above the murmurations of the patrons. “So many little ones have drowned this season, never to sprout in warm sun.”

Her face softens, lips perched somewhere between sorrow and hope. “I understand if this is too much to ask of a stranger. But I can smell the dust of wild lands still clinging to your boots, and yer heart seems good. A dryad knows.”

Her open palm remains poised before you.

You consider the gravity of her request. Urla has asked you to take guardianship of one of her children to give them a chance at a better life.

Do you:

Urla’s request feels more like a gift than a task. Delicately, you pluck the pale hickory nut from her palm. In your own hand, it tingles with warmth - the promise of a life to be called forth with nurture and care.

“Of course I will do this for you,” you say.

The raucous sounds of the tavern grow distant as all your attention narrows to that heat against your palm. A chiming voice - wordless and indistinct - plays along the edges of your consciousness. There is no mistaking the magic in this small, precious item.

There is a pocket inside your leather jerkin. Small and secure, it normally keeps your tinderbox dry. You shift the tinderbox to a pouch upon your belt. With a bit of oiled cloth, you gently wrap the hickory nut and tuck it away. It rests, humming, against your heart.

Urla’s face crinkles with relief and delight.

“There aren’t thanks enough,” she says. “And yet - can I dare another favor?” She bites her lip, hesitant to press your good will. “Tell me of yer travels. All the places you’ve been that I can never see.”

Urla returns to her bench and pats the seat beside her. The lines in her face smooth away with delight, revealing the memory of a younger, wilder dryad.

She is beautiful.

You settle beside her and consider what place to describe. Choose one:

You consider all the wondrous places you have traveled: the Windspire Mountains where powerful gusts swirl pillars aloft; the Foxfire Caverns where slick stalactites gleam with fungal light; the Crystal Tundra where glinting points of quartz sing with each dawning of the sun...

But the place you really want to talk about - the place you *need* to share - is home. Many years have passed since you walked those green meadows but something in Urla’s manner has made you yearn for that far-off place with an ache as bittersweet as it is profound.

And so you begin first by describing the scent of the place - wildflowers and new-mown hay in the late summer heat. That scent, combined with a certain quality of light, propels you back until the sound and feel of the tavern slip entirely away ...

And you are a child again, running through the nodding fields as grasshoppers and butterflies erupt in your wake. There is a lone tree perched on a hillock deep in the meadow. Your mother called it a wolf tree, although it never seemed very wolfish to you.

Wolves are lean hunger, claws and teeth, but this tree was sanctuary. You spent whole summers lounging in its branches. Keenly you recall peering at blue skies through its sheltering leaves and painting castles in your mind from the passing clouds.

That was where your urge for adventure first germinated, growing eventually into a restlessness that the boundaries of your little hamlet could no longer contain.

It has never occured to you until now to miss that tree - nor to thank it.