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?))
Orion would cast is eyes down to the cushion with disdain, turning them up to the hag for the briefest of moments before reluctantly lowering himself down onto the cushion, staring at the hag with intensity.
"My story?" He'd pause for a moment, spluttering as he fought off a deep, chesty cough. "Well... creature. I suppose I am now... drifting."
He'd pull a round steel flask from a faded leather satchel and take a long swig.
"I left home a few winters ago, joined up with some local... bandits is the word I suppose." He'd shrug with the beginnings of a grin on his face. "Young as I was, I followed them, helped them and scaled their ranks, getting my hands dirtier and dirtier."
He'd nod, looking off into the dust dancing in the sunlight behind the witch. "It became... too much for me. I had to eventually refuse, and they didn't like that... at all." He'd shake his head with a soft chuckle.
"Fortune thankfully favoured me, as I was able to leave largelly intact." He'd motion to a long scar running down from his cheekbone to his chin. "I suppose it was only my youth that saved me there."
"Anyhow, I left, and moved to the city to ply my trade as a merchant, fill my pockets with gold." He'd smile, then shrug, motioning to his worn-down outfit.
"As you can see, that hasn't quite worked out." He'd take another swig, following it up with a half-hearted shrug. "Perhaps I'll find something better to do here, if fortune favours it."
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