FallenFar

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?))
 

Gazing at the cushion, he finds himself momentarily lost in thought before shifting his attention back to the hag. The putrid odor clouds his mind, triggering an almost eerie sense of familiarity.

"Well?" the hag inquires, her tone tinged with impatience. He approaches her cautiously, instinctively reaching for his belt before meeting her gaze. "You know me?"

A sly grin spreads across her weathered lips as she nods slowly. "So, it's true? You've lost your memory? Can't even recall your own name?"

"My name is..." He sinks to his knees on the cushion, deep in contemplation. My name... It's... Gone. Where was I before here? His mind echoes with the sounds of clashing steel, desperate screams, and unbridled rage. Suddenly, he feels a warmth at the back of his skull, a wet trickle down his neck.

Before he can dwell further, the hag thrusts a small leather satchel into his hands, muttering, "Tsk, tsk, tsk, it's a pitiful sight, how you've fallen far."

In the distance, the clamor of men shouting and horses thundering through swamp waters can be heard. It is getting louder. Closer.

A scowl darkens the hag's face as she points to the door. "They're coming. They're angry with you. You may not remember, but they do not forgive."

He glances towards the door, trying to gauge their proximity, only to turn back and find the hag has vanished without a trace.

With the satchel clenched tightly in his grasp, he strides towards the door.

"Fallen Far... A name as good as any."