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?))
Nimkiir nonchalantly seats himself in the vacant cushion, a relaxed huff escaping from his lips. "--been on the road for a while. Good to rest my soles for a bit." He murmurs aloud, eventually lifting his head to answer the query given. "Just passing through. Home's not much of a welcoming place for the time being. Figured I ought to... seek opportunities elsewhere. Figure here's as good a place as any to start making a living, aye?" The man offers back with a gesture of his hand forward, reclining further into the seat.
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