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?))
"Ye want to know my story?" my cold words grumble out from gritted teeth as I lay my beaten axe to the side, "I'm here for a warm drink in me belly and a hard bed to rest." I glance out from the shadows of my helmet noticing very little apart from the blazing candles and what appears to be the shape of a woman sitting before me. "I 'eard from my cousin that there was witchcraft that could save me failin' eyes." Almost blind I struggle to focus on the old hag. The smells around me disturbing the only keen sense I had left. "Until I find it, if it even exists, I'll be hittin' dingy towns like this until I'm dead. Or maybe I'll get to see the sunrise one last time. So, tell me lass, have you got anything to 'elp me or should I go trudgin' out back to the hills. Tail between me legs?" My story drifts off into nonsensical mumbles near the end. A stoic right hand grabbing firm at that near broken war-torn axe in preparation for departure.
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