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?))
Damp reeds bed the dirty floor, you take your seat on an oddly ornate cushion.
Your eyes wander, remembering what she asked, "uh ...", a wide question. 'She must be the right one?'
"Yes, when I was small we left Ladyr to live in Renilcia, in the country, my mother's family was there. We raised bees and hops, sold waxes to the monks.
Master Artia taught me letters and history, an old friend of my mother's I believe... When I turned of age he introduced me at the School of St. Pelin,
and I studied under the senior scholiasts. Though the idleness was weary, and fortunately I gained the acquaintance of our mutual friend; the master librarian is a great collector, and my work has been retrieval."
The crone's gnarled hands began to lift a black handkerchief off the table, revealing a small wooden box...
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