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.”
Azriel shuffles, uncertainly. Their eyes glaze over the entire interior, nose curling up slightly. Special attention is given to the candles with overt suspicion, before they lower themselves down, sitting cross-legged on the cushion. "Expecting me?" They ask, waiting for elaboration. When none comes, they fidget again, nervously. "...Right. I'm a traveller, I suppose. There's not anything more to it. I don't like to stay in one place. You'd think that'd make for a varied story, but... All that tends to happen is I pike off the wrong person, and get thrust out of where I'm staying, and I move right along." They pause. Maybe this is a rare moment for some truth. "I just can't help but get involved with the wrong people. Doesn't help that I've always had a talent for filching." At that, then shake their head, groaning. "What is this, a church confessional?! I'm gone." With that, they stand, very quickly making their way from the tent and back onto the muggy street.
They toss their hood up, and look for the least leaky-looking inn or tavern, fiddling in a pocket for some old, slightly-worn (or in some cases bent) coins. It'll have to do.
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