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?))
I shoot a weary glance at the crone before taking a seat. "There 'ain't that much to tell, and even less for someone I just met. I like people, just don't trust 'em much." I pause for a moment, as the crone pours a drink and slides it across to me. "I'm from a small town up north; nice enough place, good mead." I take a sip. "but I needed to see more of the world so I went travelling, picking up jobs here and there, spending many a night under the stars. You meet all sorts out on the road, the good and the bad." There's another pause." think its about time I set down roots again. Maybe a farm, with a bunkhouse for the odd traveller..." I trail off, staring into my drink. "One thing's for sure. I 'aint going back home just yet."
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