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?))
Example: Baldor stares, looking into the woman's eyes with anticipation. He sits down on the cushion the women gestured to and begins telling his backstory. "My parents threw my brother and I out of our home we were just young. We were lost, didn't know what to do. I of course was the oldest at the time, 12 to be exact. My brother was only 8. I had studied a lot to do with herbs and different types of alcohol, the kind that can help with wounds and other needs of that sort. I have a goal. When I was younger my brother and I were taking into captivity by the orcs. I watched him die. They hacked and sliced at him. They listened to my screams until I couldn't scream anymore. I managed to escape the following night thankfully. Over the years, I've adapted to not having a place to live, though I plan on making that change. The knowledge of spells came around when I was 17, all thanks to an old man I met, he had gray hair and a long beard, never took off his hat and always carried a stick. He trained me until he called me his young mage. It felt great but that never changed what happened to my brother. I will avenge his death and if not, I'll die trying."
"Oh, I just, uh…" you stutter, tensing up. You eye the crone, then back outside the tent. For a moment, the air thickens with anticipation, until… Baldor stands up and steps out of the tent, interlocking his fingers behind his neck and gradually steps away.
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