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?))
Anara’s eyes dart around the interior of the dimly lit tent, her hand slowly trailing along something hiding underneath the thick burgundy cape blanketing her body–after a moment, she blinks, her eyes shooting over to the hag.
“Ah, yes, of course–I’m known as Anara,” She says with a slight bow before pausing, “apologies, I’m not sure if that would be considered impolite.”
The Hag lets out a soft chuckle and waves the notion away with her wrinkled, crooked hand.
“Don’t put worry upon such things my dear, please, sit,” She says with a warm smile, motioning again. Anara nods and approaches, stopping at the cushion, and reaching her hand towards the hook at the center of her cape. She releases it, catching it with her other hand as it begins to fall, and with a swish places it onto her arm. Her hand falls to the pommel of the item she was fidgeting with under her coat earlier–faded gold accented smallsword attached by a leather strap to her hip.
Maneuvering the sword around herself, she brings her knees down onto the cushion and rests back onto her feet.
“So, Anara? Are you going to begin?” The hag asks after a moment of lingering silence between the two.
“Hm?” Anara replies, her mind drifting off before snapping to attention, “oh, right. Well, I don’t believe there’s much story of myself to tell, none that you would find interesting at least.”
“What I find interesting is up to myself to decide, my dear, please tell.”
“Well, I was born to a family of bankers–though by the time I was around twelve winters old we had lost the bank to some old family rivals and were forced to abscond to the poorer districts,” Anara begins, “but we didn’t lead a life of suffering have no worry of that,” She chuckles.
“Betrayal is a hard thing,” The hag says with a soft empathetic stare. Anara swallows, meeting her gaze, before clearing her throat.
“It’s not some big calamity, really,” She starts, “me and family, we made due, we got by–my father began a small economic venture with some of the denizens of the district, my mother began a small private apothecary. It’s where I learned herbalism and such.”
“How is your family?” The hag asks.
“Well, my mother died of common illness... not a bad way to go–no villainous hordes or blood. My father took hard to it while she was fading, ran away, I imagine it was hard to see his wife like that. I took care of her until the end, and then took over her apothecary.”
“I am sorry my dear, so do you still run it?”
“No, no, a few years ago my father’s associates reclaimed it–he apparently owed them a large amount of coin. No, now I am a kind of... wanderer.”
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