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?))
Staring back, studying the woman and the candles in the air, he would step forward in a slow, leisurely fashion. "Salam... and so you have." he remarks before taking a seat. Pausing for a moment, he would situate himself on the cushion, his gaze meeting the corners and shadows of the tent in search for other people that might be hiding. "You must know well enough that I am nothing more than a nomad... My parents come from the lands of Atlas, but I cannot recall the greater part of my younger years. All I know are vague memories of the swamplands and mountains of Almaris and the comfort of my solemnness." he states in a calm, low tone. "I spend my days behind the pages of books and on trails untraveled." he says, glancing briefly at the candles. A pause occurs as he sits in silence, looking to the woman and over at the tent walls beyond her. He stands up from the cushion, rolling his shoulders, "I must say that I don't have much else to explain to you. I am simple. I won't be bothered to pry into my own history for you, stranger... Be well with what you now know." he states with an irked demeanor. He starts walking to the tent entrance before any response can be uttered. "Ma'a salama." he says as he steps back out into the town, continuing onward.
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