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?))
"There is not much to say." I say, taking my seat upon the cushion. "I am the third son of a farmer, firstborn of his second wife. My oldest brother inherited half my father's land, my second oldest brother inherited the livestock herd, and I was given a choice to either work for one of my brothers, or take an inheritance and strike it out on my own." I show my hands. "These aren't the hands of a hero, but the calloused hands of a farmer. Now tell me, hag of the woods, how did you know I was coming to meet you? Why do you even wish to talk to someone like me? I am a nobody, although this does not hurt me to declare it so."
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