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?))
Lorcan pauses, hand on the doorframe, “You’re a magic user.”
The old woman smiles, “What gave that away?”
“I’m not someone you should know without aid from the void,” Lorcan folds his arms.
The hag chuckles, “Sit, boy. I mean you no harm.”
Lorcan pauses and his gaze sweeps around the room, than over her, before he makes his way over and gingerly sits.
“What happened to this place?” He fiddles with the fraying hem of his sleeve absentmindedly, taking in the moss and unpatched holes in the roof, “And how do you still live here? This place is a ghost town.”
“So many questions,” The hag tuts, “I live here for the same reasons I’ve been waiting for you.”
Lorcan frowns, “Why? I’m just a runaway. If you’d like I can lend you some monk bread, but I don’t have money or anything else of value.”
“You have a story,” She answers simply, “And the value of that is incalculable. So tell me.”
Lorcan pauses again, watching her like he’s expecting to see some new detail in her face that solves this mystery, but finds nothing.
He sighs, “I don’t know what to tell you. I’m on my way to Lurin,” He pulls out an old weathered map, “I’m young, and I haven't done anything with my life. I've been two things: a son, and a wanderer. I’m sure you can find many of both.”
“Your eye. Such a pretty color, but such an odd one for a Mali’ker,” The hag says, tilting her head.
Lorcan stiffens slightly, “Well, I’m only half ‘ker. The rest of me is Mali’ame. That explains the eye and why my skin has a bit too much color too it.”
“Well that must have a story behind it. And you’re much too young to be out there alone..”
Lorcan laughs, “If you think that’s young, you won’t like when I started.”
“Fifteen.”
Lorcan’s face falls, then morphs to defensive suspicion, “I beg your pardon.”
“Your mother died, and a week after that when you were two days fifteen you left,” The Hag says, a note of sorrow in her voice and the crease in her brow.
There’s a pause.
“Yes. I don’t get along with my stepfather. I had no reason to stay,” Lorcan takes off the headpiece and starts tracing the rim, “But I guess I had no reason to go, either. He didn’t like me, but he wasn’t cruel. I would have been well fed. Well educated. I guess I hoped I’d find something else, and my pride couldn’t handle going back.”
“And you haven’t found it yet?”
“I thought about trying to find my father, or see if I’m an orphan. But I didn’t care enough and I don’t think I’d like what I’d find,” His hands come to a stop on the headpiece, “This is his, I think. Or he made it for my mother. I’m not sure--”
He cuts himself off and clears his throat, “Point is, I’m headed to Lurin. Maybe I’ll find…A calling. Or a friend. Or something there. And if not…I’ll try Amaethia. I grew up hearing stories of druids. I don’t think they’d want me, but I could at least try.”
“Well I wish you luck boy,” The hag smiles, “You’ll need it.”
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