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?))
Zareth's feet are aching at the offer; yet her rather foreboding words of expectance seem off-putting initially. Did she really expect him?
He wasn't one to let his thoughts get the best of him, and so a curt nod of his head is given, a slight twitch at his eye, as that violet-hued gaze began picking across the dimly-lit tent, and then back to the Hag.
"Quite the place - but... I must inquire, you've been waiting... for me? I cannot say I've heard much of that from an outsider, let alone one settled in a place like this."
A brief wave of his hand is given, before an apologetic nod is given.
"Apologies if that was rude. I am Zareth, and well - I don't exactly remember where I hail from; or how I've come to stumble amidst this place, but I can tell you; quite simply, I'm quite swell with my hands, and forging is something I strive to become better at - a few fine masterpieces of myself I have.. albeit crude."
There's a brief shift in his demeanor, as his passion is spoken of, and a rather crude looking iron dagger is drawn from its sheathe amidst his hip; there's a variety of small, ineligible, rather by language barrier, or sheer sloppiness inscribings.
The blade looks splintered already, but there's no doubt it can still cut.
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