Your character has just arrived in a swampy, dim town. As they look around, their gaze is met with shacks and cabins. It smells of rotted wood and wet moss. They 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.”
She's a thin woman, gaunt and ragged like something plucked from an alleway. The flicker of candle-light makes her appear almost wicked, though her voice is bittersweet. "It's not much of one, I'm afraid." The corners of her lips twisted into a smile, the hag staring back. "Nerina Torti, or Tori at your pleasure. I'm headed up towards Urguan for work." A pause, then.
"You don't look like a dwarf."
Nerina laughed, "You've still got sight - No, 'm not. But word is they're lettin' mercenaries ply their craft, and the pay's good. Gonna head up 'n see if the Silver-Spears need another hand, and if not some other company."
"A sellsword - " The crone leaned over, their gaze settling accusingly on her "- Without a sword to sell."
True enough, she had no weapon; just a belt loop where a sheath might've once been. Nerina looked like she'd been stung, "A craftsman's not their tools, but the means to use 'em. I had one, castle-forged, but this year's not been kind and it bought me a few months sleepin' under roofs instead of hedges."
They went on like that for the rest of the night, the crone nagging at her and Nerina handing over her past in pieces. She'd been a thief, a tavern-keep, a sellsword, and a farm-girl at some point or another. The only thing that fixed the tales together was misfortune in them. Now and then triumph'd flash in her gaze as she'd talk of some turn of good luck - A heist where she stole a bag full of silver cutlery, a tavernkeeping job where she was paid handsomely to ignore 'other' dealings - Then her look would fall again as the law's shadow caught up to her tale. Nothing seemed to stick except that her coffers'd run out and then she'd be gone for greener pastures. Set apart from the stories she spun were just a few glimpses into her family. Farmers, she'd mentioned, just a few and living in poverty. Her father she had no love for and her brother had been conscripted in some war or another and hadn't been seen by her since. She had a mother and sister, though she avoided talking about them much other then a desire to see them again.
When the night ended her throat was sore and the crone seemed satisfied with her lot. No doubt when the sun rose the next morning she'd already be outside, marching to another story to share.
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