falchionx

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?))
 

Johannes took a seat, waving the bartender over to take his order for a drink. He started, "My name is Johannes, born to this realm in a place of humble origin, but such beginnings oft shape men of the strongest mettle. When I was young, I lived with my parents in the outskirts of a small village, nestled between the rolling hills and the whispering woods. Our existence was but a modest one, with the days filled with labor from dawn to dusk. My father was a cobbler, his hands hardened from years of shaping leather, while my dear mother, her fingers gentle, spun wool into thread.

In my teenage years, my father had left, not out of ill will or lack of love, but to join the legions of the United Kingdom of Aaun. The rebellious Adrians threatened the tranquility of our land, and my father felt the call to arms more potent than the pull of his own hearth.

Years after, a raven arrived bearing a message sealed with the crest of Aaun. The parchment revealed a harsh truth - my father had fallen, a martyr, laying down his life for the very peace he sought to defend. His departure shattered our fragile existence, thrusting me into a life I never wished for.

With my father's passing and the need for survival, I took to a hermit's life. My youthful dreams faded as I left my mother's side. Every morning I woke with the sun, traveling from door to door, performing odd tasks for a few coins or a morsel of bread. Some days, I would mend fences, and others, I would chop wood. In return, I received what little generosity people could afford.

At night, I'd retreat to my makeshift shelter, constructed from branches and lined with leaves, nestled amidst the forgiving embrace of the woods. My meals were humble, often nothing more than a handful of foraged berries or roots. On fortunate nights, a kind villager would bestow upon me a potato or a piece of fish. That, is my story."