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?))
Micael studies the elder woman with a serious, analytical glare. He does not break eye contact at first. Finally, he slides into the chair and speaks after a long moment of silence. He is hesitant to tell a stranger too much about his background, and would prefer to ask her the questions first, but he likes that this woman took an interest in him. She doesn't seem to mean any harm. "I was raised in another land by my mother, Myrrhine. She often told me stories of the heartlands with fondness. She had an old friend who she visited there, although that was over twenty years ago. She converted to the Church of the Canon around that time, and I was raised by her in that religion myself. There is not much for me left in my old home. What money I had, either from working small jobs or receiving gifts from my mother, I spent on something of a religious education or squandered on poor investments. I used the rest to come here. I thought I would explore this land and start a new life. I might enter the service of a merchant and become a trader myself one day, or enter the clergy. I can read, write, and speak in the language of the Heartlanders. Maybe some adventuring and exploring along the way, who knows. After all, this seems like the place for it."
He sunk into the chair in a lazy way and sighed in relaxation. Then, he raised an eyebrow. "Now, ma'am... how do you know me?"
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