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?))
"It all started and ended at the final job" I whispered. The old hag looks at me curiously as I continue my story. "I didn't expect to be an assassin when I was younger, but growing up, I knew my speed would help me someday. I was always able to blend in to the crowd and be silent, but my mistake was taking the first job. It was difficult at first, and soon, the jobs got easier and I got quicker." I adjust wearily on the cushion as I start speaking again. "It was supposed to be my last job, but I finally met someone who got the upper hand on me. I thought it was going to be smooth and easy, and that's when my head felt the collision with the cold hard steel of the mans hammer. The next thing I knew, I woke up in this dim town, not knowing what happened in between."
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