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?))
Finnigan would sit down on the cushion, eyeing the hag and the surrounding tent. "Aye, names Finnigan, in my father's name." He would glance around the room, looking for a pint of ale. "My father is a blacksmith, and it is my wish to follow in his steps. Grew up in his shop, running to his errands and needs. He'd make the goods, I'd deliver. As I got older, he began to teach me his ways. Though I'm no smith yet, in time I surely will be." He'd then look around once again and state; "Where can a lad get a pint around here?" chuckling to himself. "Anyways, not much to tell ye' but much to be done." Finnigan would then rise, and beckon the woman to point towards the nearest pub.
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