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?))
"Well" he'd say as he adjusted his posture, placing his right ankle over his left knee. He'd speak with a calm tone "My name is Farid Al-Hakim, son of Kareem Al-Hakim. I come from lands far away, I've battled dozens of times, and killed dozens of men. Ever since I could walk I've been tutored by my father to become a soldier. He had taught me discipline, and remaining calm in times of chaos. He taught me how to handle a sword and to shoot with a bow and arrow. Every time I would miss the target, my father told me to shoot again. Every time I'd fall down, my father would tell me to get up. Every time I'd practice fighting with the other children and I'd get punched, my father would tell me to punch back twice. Now you may wonder why I've come from lands away." he'd pause for a moment remaining eye contact, he softened his voice and remained the calm tone as he proceeded to say: "I came here to conquer, in honor of the Al-Hakim legacy and in the name of the great Kareem Al-Hakim."
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