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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 young man at the head of the tent looks uneasy, the question throwing him off somewhat. He doesn't expect people to care much about what he has to say, after all, before now he was just a mercenary with no home to return to. He was raised in a village that by most extents doesn't exist anymore, burnt to ashes in raid after raid. He survived somehow, how he doesn't exactly remember, and joined up with a mercenary army as a way of breaking bread. Recently, however, he learned that someone else from his village survived and now resides in one of the larger cities.
He sighs as he sits down in front of the Crone, curling up on the cushion. Wet with dew and the drippings of trees, his cassock is damp and stained a dirty chlorophyll green. He had little to no interest in telling this old woman his life story. It's not as if there was much of interest. Just the dead piling up, the cost of every senseless war.
"I was a mercenary. I needed out. Not much of a story, here, lady. None you'd like to here, anyway..." Nof mumbles under his breathe, looking away. He let a little bit of truth slip out. He couldn't keep doing it. Maybe he grew a conscience at some point, or it dug itself out its grave, but he couldn't keep walking into battlefield after battlefield. Not after last time.
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