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?))
Ben Quadinaros, clumsily ducking into the tent with his oversized helmet scraping the entrance, looks around, wide-eyed at the floating candles. He straightens himself, though his armor clinks noisily, making him seem out of place in the eerie stillness. “Ah—me? You’ve been expecting me?” he stammers, his deep voice betraying a hint of nervousness. Slowly, he clanks over to the cushion and sits, his weight making the seat groan. “Well, uh, I’m not sure where to begin,” he mumbles, shifting awkwardly. “I’m no grand hero, you see. Just a… a chariot racer with a knack for getting into tight spots. Also a small time chariot racer. Or was.” He chuckles nervously, rubbing the back of his massive head.” I was removed from the order my brazen racing style was too much for the rather close minded order”. He says apprehensively his pale skin glinting in the candle light.
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