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?))
Wolfric grunted, the sound a low rumble in his chest, as he settled onto the strange, lumpy cushion. He gripped the worn leather of his bag, his eyes narrowed as they took in the woman's gnarled hands and the flickering candlelight. "No story to tell, old woman," he said, his voice as rough as gravel. "Just a man looking for a forge to hammer iron or a mine to swing a pickaxe." He met her expectant gaze with a hard, unblinking stare. "The road's long and my pockets are empty. If you've been expecting me, then you'd know that." The words were blunt, holding a weary challenge, as if daring her to tell him differently.
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