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.”
((How do you respond?))
*remains motionless, declaring, "I prefer to stand."
"Tell me, hag, what do you know of purpose?"
*crosses his arms, pondering another rhetorical question
"What is the meaning of our mortality? This weak and frail existence?"
*spits on the ground
"My story, like yours, begins with my birth and ends with my death. There is no purpose that carries meaning beyond this life..."
"...except glory and honor. We carry it naught with us when we die, but legacy lives eternally in the mouths of those who remain."
"This is why I have come. Once a wanderer, I seek to build upon the legacy of my ancestors so that I may be immortalized by those who proceed me."
"As for you, hag, I ask once more...what do you know of purpose?"
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