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?))
"You're expecting me?" John mutters, eyes wide with surprise. "Well, that's a lovely change of pace." He lowers himself onto the cushion gently, groaning as his body finally releases the tension he'd carried in his travels. "I'm afraid I've not much a story to tell, I'm just a meager sailor from the coast looking for a change of scenery." John leans toward the crone, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, "All things considered, I'm looking to start crafting a real story in the city, since I've no real legacy to my name." He chuckles lightly his grin shifting to a smile for but a moment, before his face fell flat and stern. "Which begs, the question, what business have ye to be expecting me?"
(DISCORD USERNAME HAS NO DIGITS, I HAVE BEEN SUBJUGATED TO NEW DISCORD TOS BUT THE FORM DOES NOT UNDERSTAND AS SUCH)
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