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.”
Takeda sits cross-legged on the cushion, taking off his satchel. "My story?" He sighs. "My story is one of great shame. I was the son of a samurai, like one of your knights, I suppose, from the land of Oyashima. You may have heard of it." He shifts around, clearly distressed by the memories. "A rival clan came in the night and sacked our village. Before we-" he pauses mid-sentence, and winces. "Before we had a chance to defend ourselves, we were attacked. I was gravely wounded," he gestures to his wooden legs, "Yet I was the only survivor. And so I fled." he finishes his story, and allows the old woman to speak.
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