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?))
Jyrago studies the hag for a few moments in silence, hesitating out of caution before giving the hag a slow nod. He makes his way over to the cushion and takes a seat, letting out a sigh as his legs are given a chance to rest after having been traveling for so long. "Well, I anticipate you may already know this, but my name is Jyrago. I seek to make a name for myself as an assassin, just as my mother was before me. My... My parents are not a topic I enjoy discussing, considering that they are gone.. but, I grew up in a moore, not too dissimilar to this very swamp. That's where my mother taught me to fade into the shadows, to strike silently. It is also where my father taught me how to forage for both food, and ingrediants for poisons, should I ever need them. I had only seen my eighteenth spring when I had to leave my home. Since then I have wandered from place to place, taking jobs where I can and building contacts, doing what I can to uphold my family's legacy."
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