Your character has just arrived in a swampy, dim town. As they look around, their gaze is met with shacks and cabins. It smells of rotted wood and wet moss. They 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?))
The man approaches the seat wearily, ash'ed hand resting on the hilt to a dagger which noticeably had seen more battles than clean days. When accessing the room and the gorgon, his finally body sat. The cushion cried under weight, its initially unsteady nature bending to obey. "It's me?" The face of a person told story whether through scars or fixed expressions, but this one read only scrutiny. "You talk as if you know me from somewhere." The hand slid off its leather perch, but his thumb still taunted nearby it. The other arm slumped its elbow against the surface of the counter-table, holding his extended chin as a lazy support. "Not like it mattahs, I suppose." - "I am Liriel. A.. soldier from a small town west from here. Its name is Misten. Burnt down by some laze-arse brigands, carrying gray outfits n some fish crest. I come to chase af'ta them. Have'ya heard anything like described before?"
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