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?))
He took a deep breath, the damp air filling his lungs as he settle onto the cushion, its fabric rough and worn beneath him. He looks at the old hag, her eyes piercing yet somehow comforting.
"I was born in the city of Alisgrad, capital of the kingdom of Norland. My parents were traveling merchants. From a young age I picked up knowledge from various magicians and conmen on journeys”
He smiles wistfully, remembering the library where he spent countless hours as a child. “I used to spend my days in the grand library, surrounded by books and scrolls. My father would tell me stories of great heroes and legends. My mother would teach me sveaspråk, so I could read the texts and speak the language myself."
"Oh, I just, uh…" you stutter, tensing up. You eye the crone, then back outside the tent. For a moment, the air thickens with anticipation, until…
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