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?))
Sylion lowered himself onto the cushion, his broad form casting a shadow in the dim light of the tent. His gaze was unwavering, sharp as the steel of his blade, as he looked at the crone before him.
"I want to be a knight" he began, his voice roughened by years of service and sacrifice. "Just like the greatest knights, I want to serve a noble family, give them my loyalty, my strength—my honor."
His jaw tightened, and for a moment, his gaze drifted past her, as if seeing memories on the mist swirling in the dim tent. "I trained for many, many years."
He leaned forward, his voice dropping lower, edged with resolve. "At last, I left. Set out alone, to find someone worthy of my blade—someone who understands what loyalty truly means." He paused, eyes sharp on the crone. "And now I’m here, drawn to this place. So tell me, old one—why were you expecting me?"
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