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?))
"Witch," said The Wanderer, "I wade through the airy ocean of the world to preserve the memory and beauty of its most intriguing and unique features. I serve as a witness to the chronicling of information, so as to capture its essence in a pure, unbiased light, and store it for long enough that I may one day be revered for my work - if, of course, time allows. I have roamed the lands of men and not-men alike without such a thing as a name to call my own, so I unfortunately have nothing else to offer you in return for your hospitality..."
The aged woman has begun to brew several potions during his introduction, and turned at just the right moment to catch her guest reaching for something within the dark, blank cavity that was the hole of his light-blue shawl, and managed to produce a book & quill before saying, "...nothing, of course, other than an interview."
It was only then that the hag noticed The Wanderer's valiant horse loaded with not only basic supplies, but an almost encumbering amount of paints, brushes, canvases, canvas stands, quills from all sorts of different birds, and a variety of journals, each with their own shape and color. Taking notice, the witch said, "How did a dog like you get the Minas for all of that?" In spite of the very obvious insult, The Wanderer continued in the same tone, pace, and spirit as before; "There are several methods," he declared, "that one may garner such quantities of what you see. Oils and horse hair were never reported to have originated in the markets."
And so, the two stayed until afternoon, one asking various questions about the town, its locals and its history, while the other complacently replied in moderate detail. Come evening, The Wanderer took to painting a landscape painting of the lushly overgrown village, and by dusk, all were comfortably sleeping in a bed - at least for this night only.
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