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?))
"Why do you want to hear MY story?" Torne says, sitting down on the cushion."I know quite a few more exiting tales than my own. But you do seem rather trustworthy, but then again, all elderly folks seem trustworthy. 'Cept for old man Gerald." Torne shifts uncomfortably on his seat. "Well, I was born in Norland, a kingdom far to the north. My family practiced the Red Faith, and I was born into it. My father was a blacksmith and my mother was a seamstress, though her true passion was singing. I suppose that's one of the reasons I fell in love with music. I learned to sing and to dance before I had seen four winters. By the time I was old enough to pump the bellows for my father, I could play the lute and the fiddle as well as any man. I learned a bit of ironmongery when I turned fifteen, but my heart wasn't in it. Eventually, I began to play my music on the streets, in taverns, and in every crowd I could find, trying to grab a few minas here and there. Before I knew it, I was a grown man. So I set off for adventure on the roads, looking for some coin, and perhaps a place to settle down. I've been on the roads since." Torne sighs and gets up. "I can play you a song if you like. If not, I really must be going." Torne ducks out of the tent and heads for the nearest tavern.
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