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?))
"Well..." Responds Ashtun quickly "If you've been expecting me, I half expect that you already know the answer" He winks slyly at the old hag, his smugness written on his face "But fine, if a story you want, let me tell you."
Ashtun sits onto the damp rug in the tent and pulls out a short pipe from his belt, packing it with leaves and lighting it swiftly. "Ramasar, to put it bluntly, is where I hail from. But I hardly stuck around long. I left when I was 14, after my parents' death at the hand of bandits, and I've been travelling ever since." He takes a moment to puff in silence, in respect of his parents, perhaps. "My family were actually quite well-to-do for some years, but the bandits took it all and the debt collectors took the house soon enough, threw me into the streets, and so I took off for adventure and fortune." He smiles mockingly "But somehow I ended up here..."
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