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?))
Freya gives the hag a once over, before lowering herself onto the cushion. "Just... travelling through." She holds herself with a surprising amount of poise, for someone so young, and of her station. "-And my story?" Freya gives a little chuckle. "My father was a blacksmith by trade. I'm hoping to follow in his footsteps."
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