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?))
Rade takes a seat, it makes a quiet deflating sound, and to his discomfort, it was wet. The woman tilts her head, waiting as Rade stared. After a moment, he opened his mouth. "I grew up with my older brothers, our parents didn't care for us." Rade's fists slowly clenched. "We survived in the streets, earned a living working for thugs and whoever would give us food or money. One day there was a fight in the tavern, and blades were drawn." He turned his head away, the memories of that day threatening to break his stern demeanor. "I lost both of my brothers, and my parents did not care. Now my parents are dead, and I'm the last surviving member of the Fyre bloodline. That's is my story." Rade turned back to the woman, quickly drawing his sword and holding the blade to her throat. "Now you tell me, witch, how did you know I was looking for you?"
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