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.”
The Halfling couldn't help but to stifle a grimace through the dingy tour through the town. By the time their eyes met the hag's, his face muscles had actually felt weary from such reaction. His face similarly was gloomy, marked with heavy eyelids and dark circles around the eyes. He could hardly care less, for that matter, as he seemed determined to roll through this meeting with the joy and whimsy of a mandatory guild conference. The ones that could have been a missive instead. However, the weary halfling could feel the tension in his shoulders soften as he was invited over to a seat, having grown weary of such a travel- especially having to carry a backpack as tall as he was on his back. He exhaled a sigh, slouching, as he shambled to the seat.
CREEEEAK
Old rotten wood became his respite, as the halfling climbed to sit at the table. Yet, suddenly, he halted and drew up his palm into his view, spotting mud and muck that had stained the seat, and now had been staining him with it. His furrowed brows and stern glare seemed momentary, as the initial pang of disgust washed away with indifference. His weary gaze greeted her with a stoney face, steeling himself for the interview.
"Well, I suppose- what is there to say? I'm a wayfarer, looking' for work." He rubbed his eyes, brushing his own words aside as quickly as he spoke them. He pilfered through his pockets to find an old parchment, slapping it down on the table. It seemed like missives- vouchers, signatures. "I have years of experience keeping other folk alive, keeping things organized. You're bound to learn some set of skill bein' the caretaker of a band of halfling siblings. I'm exquisite in organization and preparation." He added with a tinge of tired pride, lifting his shoulders for a bit as he briefly recalled home. Then, the crushing reality of an empty coin-purse drew him back to a weary slouch. "And... I suppose- I'm open for any job now. Mercenary work, Message-runners, Adventurers. Anything."
Just then, he tried to stretch a strained muscle in his back- yet his weary form seemed too worn-out from the travel. A loud crack, and a hideous pain in his side- he hissed and grit his teeth, almost teary-eyed. Rubbing his side in a harsh wince of pain, he quietly opened his travel-pack and withdrew a glass vial, filled with a brew from a tavern. The halfling gulped it down like water, before wearily collapsing against the table, his cheek squished on the plank top as he rested his head. This seemed like the only rest he'd gotten in weeks. A sad-sack Halfling? Times truly were strange.
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