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.”
((How do you respond?))
Balthazar looked at the hag with great suspicion, squinting at her for a moment, before being interrupted by a fit of raspy coughs, and dropping himself down onto the cushion haphazardly.
With a low, growling voice, he replied: "S's'scuse me missus. Y'y'a'll 'ave te fergiv me I'm not much fer talkin."
He'd clear his throat with another few coughs, one hand by his mouth, the other atop his hat to prevent it from falling in the kerfuffle.
A little clearer now, he continued. "B-B-Balthazar. S'a'pleasure t'meet ye." His eyes continued with intensity, trying to gauge the hag's intent.
"'m'an assistant miss." He shot the hag a sly grin. "A'did papers and counting 'fer paps 'n the boys at 'ome." He seemed to reminisce for a moment, a tinge of melancholy seeming to pierce his demeanour.
"Nay afraid t'get the'ol 'ands dirty either - if tha's what's in orde'" He'd raise his two, white gloved hands up before him with a coy smile, rotating them twice as though for inspection before returning them steadily to his lap.
"Gloves'll 'ave t'come off though." He shrugged. "S's'not cheap this pair."
He'd shoot them a quick glance, his eyes tracing. "Say, they are get'n a bit dirty now I look."
"Few months in t'woods'll do 'at to a fella." He paused, trying to disguise his frown. "Can'nae promise perfec'shun but I'll prom's close."
He looked up with a sly wink, breaking into a hearty laugh broken only by brief spurts of coughing.
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