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.”
"Oh I don't think I know you." Inspecting the tent, his eyes wildly searching for an answer to the question. Giving up on the endeavor of making something up he sits in the stool, trying not to break it.
"Well, I don't really know where I came from but I simply remember awaking in a field wearing far too fancy clothes." Pausing to think, he continues, "I took off the fancy cloak as I of course at least knew it'd be stolen from me anyway. I don't want the trouble of fighting over it so I left it in the field. Well anyway I gave myself a name based on what I was wearing. Stupid I know but it was needed. I still remember what I was like before, or at least I'd like to say that. I only remember that damned cloak."
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