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?))
"Oh, I just, uh… Sorry-" Latimer stuttered, tensing up. He eyes the crone, then back outside the tent. For a moment, the air thickens with anticipation, until… Latimer gives out a long sigh and finally sits in the cushion, getting comfortable and tucking his cold hands under his rump. "Right, story. Thought you'd be tired of hearing the things I have to say after all this time but here we are again." Latimer wiggles in his seat just to get extra comfortable. "I wasn't exactly raised by people- More... Dragged up by Norland people. I stole and survived my way through my years and still seem to be doing so." He inhales as if he'd just told a secret he didn't want to let slip but this tent was enticing, or perhaps it was just the cozy seat he was sat on. "Any way... I've roamed from here to there, taking bread where I need to and trying not to get caught. Got a few scars from that obviously-" Latimer lifts his pant leg, showing a long scar on his leg. "But once people get too familiar with me and my ways I try to move on but... Perhaps its time I settled down now. What do you think?"
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