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?))
Riftan's cold blue gaze shifted across the Old Hag's features. He carried with him a most mundane, dulled blade- one that he collected through a riverbed, where a distant battle raged on in the distance. Making sure that such a blade was well hidden, he took a seat, "Where am I from? Uhm.. Just a village north of here, farmer." Riftan lied. He was a farmer, yes, but not anymore. A 'man on a mission' to become a Squire. Not only a Squire, but become a Knight. What a noble, most incandescent thought. Just at the peak of his youth, Riftan Vaedra sought to bring his name to glory. "Looking for work, that's all.
"Did I come to the right place?" Riftan knew he did.
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