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?))
"You've been expecting me?" I raise my eyebrows incredulously. "Have you really, or is that just something you say to everyone that comes in? ...Or, I guess that doesn't matter much," I add as I sit down on the cushion. "I'm afraid my story isn't a terribly interesting one; at least, not yet. I've always been a bit of a bookworm, you see, the sort of person who could spend days on end just exploring the local library, but the books that I loved the most were the ones that told tales of great minds; people that bent the very world to their will with their mastery of alchemy, or even the Void itself. I've always known that I was destined for something more than my boring village life. I knew I could be as great as the heroes in my stories. The day I turned eighteen, so not too long ago, I left home to find someone that can teach me about the alchemical or arcane, and, well, so far that journey has brought me here. So, you wouldn't happen to know of anyone like that, would you?"
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