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?))
"The northern lands are becoming too full with all these new people entering and settling down. Prey has been scattering, moving further away while predators have been attacking our settlements just to feed themselves. So," He clapped his hands together, the sound reminiscent of thunder. "Chieftain decided to separate us young ones from the elders, allow us a chance to live. Said they'll survive and after a while call us back up."
Stravos shrugged his shoulders.
"It's up to the gods now."
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