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?))
The man stepped through, donning a clad expression of vein apathy, a veil of stoicism to obscure his true feelings. He took a seat as he was invited, huffing out a breath before answering her question simply. "I am Losif Vitorovic, though you seem familiar. I was born to a father who was crude and apathetic toward me, except for training me in the way of the sword, as he once was trained by his father. My mother was a sickly but loving woman, who I cared for deeply. My youth was filled with toil, helping keep my mother fed and training with my father. However, my father was prone to drunken rage. My mother insisted he was a good man, so I obliged her beseeching. My father left us to seek some vain glory, and my mother passed several months later, left with nothing I went on to join a company of sellswords. I had nothing but the blade, so I lived my life by it. The fellow sellswords I came to know became a surrogate family of sorts, who I now pledge the only thing I am able to pledge to them, my sword."
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