southernsin

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?))

"To be truthful, I am not too sure." Davian would glance around with bewilderment, bringing up his hand to rub the soreness in his shoulder. "I definitely drank too much and am starting to think I took a wrong turn. Uhh, you want my story? I s'pose I can offer a story– forgive me if I take some creative liberties." The robust man sat back in his seat and kicked his feet up onto the table, likely oblivious to the dismay the crone would convey.

"The name is Davian Stalworn, though the lads back home called me "Bloody Knuckles" 'cause I tend to get into tumbles," which Davian would then proceed to flash his bandaged knuckles before continuing, "I was born just North of Karosgrad to a useless father and a too-gentle mother. But that's all boring, let's get to the interesting part aye?" Davian would reach over the table for the pitcher of some unknown liquid and poured himself some of it.

"I descend from warriors to the North– harsh, scarred men with shields, bucklers, and battleaxes of many. Though instead of living up to their glory and their name, I just find myself drinking too much and devoting too little." He'd take a small swig of the drink and huff a tired sigh; "Guess what separates me from my ancestors is they had something to fight for. They had something or someone they were devoted to. Ah damn, I shouldn't get wallowing in my own misery. You wanted a story, not a lamentation. Anything stronger than this?" Davian would chuckle and raise his glass upwards towards the crone, though would likely continue trading stories with her till the sun began to fall. The young man never quite grasped how he had arrived in this strange swamp, but as his sober wits returned to him he'd like continue onward.