Your character has just arrived in a swampy, dim town. As they look around, their gaze is met with shacks and cabins. It smells of rotted wood and wet moss. They 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?))
“Hmph, who is this woman?” Mazisi wonders silently, his steel-silver eyes narrowing as he studies the crone, searching for any sign of a threat in her gaze. He settles onto the cushion with the grace of a seasoned soldier before offering a cold, cunning remark. "If you truly expected me, then you know my story is written in the service of Cauróst and the weight of the blades I carry."
He pauses, adjusting the black iron trim of his sleeve as he decides how much to reveal to this swamp-dwelling mystic. "I was forged in the blood and frost of the northern border skirmishes, leading scouts through terrain far more treacherous than this rot-filled marsh." He takes his gaze off the crone, a tone of hurt or.. sorrow filled his demeanor.
"My youth was surrendered to the defense of my kin, traded for the tactical wisdom required to keep the Principality’s banners flying high." Mazisi cleared his voice, as if he'd started to tear up, he had refocused his gaze on the crone. "Now, I travel not out of wanderlust, but to ensure that the peace I fought for remains unbroken by those who lurk in the shadows."
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