ChorrenN

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?))
 

Ruvyn stands at the mouth of the open tent, seemingly confused, before warily taking a seat, crossing his legs before his eyes meet the crone's. "My Story...? Well, I suppose it really only starts with the death of my father, who's dead." His lips curl into an easy smile, though one that doesn't quite reach his eyes, "Very, very original story, I know, how many other fathers and mothers were killed during the Invasion? But my father was a good man. 'least that's what my mother always said, but alas, she's also no longer with us, but my story! Yeah, that, death of my mother kind of...got to me?" His eyes narrow slightly, the smile slowly recedes from his face. "I...wandered for a time, lived off the land, that sort of thing. Was peaceful, fulfilling, helped with the pain, she taught me how to hunt, skin a deer, all that." The smile quickly returns. "But I figured it's time to go home, to Nevaelen. She'd want me to go back I think." He slowly nods to himself before standing. "Thanks for listening. Meant a lot more than you think." He stands, before leaving the tent, out and onwards. Toward home.