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.”
"Im Imnian Folkrut," he says quietly. "I was a farmhand in a small village of the Empire of Man. I worked the fields since I could walk. When the levy came, they took me with the rest. I fought because I was told to, not because I wanted glory." He swallows, voice low. "Im eighteen. The war took my friends, my home, and any reason to go back. So I walked. Ended up here."
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