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?))
Braern strides across the tent, flicking his coattails out from underneath him before falling into a cross-legged position. He pulls a small pinewood box from his pocket and lifts a cigarette to sit between his lips; lighting it with a red-brown match. He refocuses his gaze onto the hag and pulls a sharp breath into his nose.
"Where would you like to start, I feel I should at least summarise for you. Rather than detail each and every step of my far flung youth."
He lifts himself somewhat to adjust the cushion beneath his body, peering around the tent to inspect the patterns and decoration around its interior.
"The day of my birth feels like as good a place as any, given its impact on my life thereafter."
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