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?))
He sits quiet and unmoving, attempting to shadow his trepidation as stillness. Still, he'd turn his head before scratching the underside of his jaw with a large hand, clearing his throat. "...expecting me.." He muttered under his breath, turning back towards the crone, his blind eyes finding perchase on her shoulder. "I hailed from Haense in my childhood, though, I'm nothing more than a nomad now.." He grunted, leaning back in the quaint chair, producing a fierce creak. He's silent for a moment more, the familiar, damp scent of moss loosening his posture. "Our tribe--Highlanders can be violent folk.." Uncomfortable, he shifts once more. "I wished not to take another life. So I left."
A hollow wind rustles the tattered flaps of the short tent, and in turn he shuffles the heavy fabric of his bear-cape further over his shoulders. "..'M'just a merchant now, my Husband's a sailor."
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