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?))
Griffon wipes a bit of swamp water from his boots before waddling forward, his round belly swaying under a travel-stained tunic. He squints suspiciously at the floating candles, then at the old hag. After a moment, a wide grin spreads across his face.
“Well now, that’s a curious welcome, if ever I’ve heard one.”
He plops down onto the cushion with a soft oomph, patting his pockets until he produces a small flask. He takes a hearty sip before offering it forward.
“Name’s Griffon Gluttonbelly. Halfling by birth, traveler by poor decision, and drinker by proud tradition.”
He chuckles warmly, the sound completely out of place in the gloomy tent.
“I’ve wandered through greener places than this bog you’ve got here, I’ll tell you that much. Rolling hills, warm taverns, barrels of ale so fresh they’d make a dwarf sing hymns. But the road’s got a way of pulling a halfling along, especially one who’s curious… or a bit foolish.”
He leans forward slightly, lowering his voice like he’s sharing a tavern secret.
“Truth be told, I came sniffin’ about for a good story. Maybe a bit of coin. Maybe a bit of trouble too, if the evening calls for it.”
He glances around the strange tent again, eyebrows raised.
“But now you’re telling me you’ve been expectin’ me, which is a mighty odd thing to say to a fellow who hardly leaves the shire.”
Another grin spreads across his face.
“So go on then, old mother. If you’ve been waiting for Griffon Gluttonbelly, I reckon you’ve got something interesting to say.”
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