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?))
Lox’Ian:
"I’ll start from the beginning" I say, sighing with remembrance. I look around the tent, making sure that we aren’t being watched and begin to explain.
“I used to be an adventurer, traveling with my best friend. We grew to be brothers, forging our weapons together.” I gesture to the Mace attached to my waist, with a smithing symbol. L/A.
“We made a pact, where if we fell, then we’d do so together. It was taken too far. We were traveling through a magma tunnel and there were trenches on the sides, we didn’t know there were natives who were deeply angered by our presence. We were ambushed, he tripped into a fiery pit, charring him down to the bone and withering remains.” There is a tinge of somberness and regret in my voice, like recalling a recently deceased family member.
“He didn’t die, you know. Lord knows how, but some enchantment we made, the pact forged through strife, and a new factor; his anger. He was a hot-headed one to begin with, me being the calmer one of our duo. He refused death, and he blamed me. Tore himself from his tomb of lava and rock and hunted me, the brother I knew far gone from sight, burned away and killed that day.” I am getting anxious, worried there are soldiers after me. Things got desperate after his death, money got tight, and I got more than I bargained for on a few jobs. If they’re listening, then they know too much. I pay off the hag and leave after getting something to drink, and continue my journey, my escape.
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