Picardy_3rd

Your character has just arrived in a swampy, dim town. As they look around, their gaze is met with shacks and cabins. It smells of rotted wood and wet moss. They 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?))

Picardy steps into the tent, shaking off some of the mud from her boots and cloak. The flickering candlelight catches the silver streak in her hair, and she raises an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued. "Expecting me?" she repeats, a little surprised, but with a playful smile. "Well, I guess I’d better live up to that, then." She takes a seat on the cushion, adjusting the wooden lyre slung across her back, letting it rest beside her. The strings hum softly in the quiet, as if they, too, were settling into the space. "My story’s simple enough," she begins, glancing around at the tattered surroundings. "I come from a family that’s always been in tune with the forest—literally. We listen to the songs of the trees, the wind, the animals, and we carve that into instruments. Wood is the heart of our work; we believe it holds the music of nature. Every piece of wood tells a story, and it's up to us to bring that out." She pauses, eyes flicking toward the rotting wood around the tent’s edges. "I guess that’s what brought me here, too. The wood here… it’s tired. It’s not singing anymore. I came to help, to replace what’s worn out and give this place a chance to sound right again. To carve something that can make this place feel alive again." Picardy tilts her head and smiles. "But if you’ve been expecting me, tell me—what did you think I’d be here for?"  She leans forward, eager to hear what the old hag has to say.