belatchka

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 squints at the old woman, bending down to meet her gaze. His feet are killing him, and even the mossy ground of the tent is a welcome respite from his travels. Digging into his pack, he draws forth a lute, plucking at the strings with careful fingers.

"Just looking for a place to rest my head for the night, Ma'am. I don't have much to offer in skills, but surely I could thread you a yarn or two to pass the night by. Let's see..." His voice takes on a drawl, head lulling back as he plays. His voice is honeyed and mellifluous, losing himself to the instrument as he plays. "...these are stories my mom used to sing me, you know. Passed down from the stars, she used to say. Hah!"

...It almost seems like a nervous habit, the way he fingers the strings, fretting over them like a fish out of water. His eyes suddenly take on something sad, and steely.

"...I miss her. God, she had the most beautiful hands..."