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?))
"My story? Well perhaps if you need aid in sleeping I can tell it.", his form crushed upon the cushion as he rested his hands on the capped metal pressed against his knees. He smirks, his eyes showing almost a joy at his own understanding of his humble life. "I do not truly have much to tell, having lived the life most young men have followed.", he spoke as he removed his gloves, showing the callous form of workers hands as he continues," I have spent much of my early life as a craftsman, helping build homes as I travelled. In following with my fathers trade." His eyes glanced around the room, only to slowly try to match her gaze again as he shrugged drawing his hands together, clasping the gloves in his hands. "I am of course now something my father would perhaps not approve of, nor my mother mind you. A sellsword does make so much more, but I do it not because I seek wealth, nor glory.", He rested a hand upon the glove, turning it to show the burned on mark where an arrow lit by fire had split it.," I seek only one thing, and that is the chance to build my pub." His chuckle if allowed could echo heavily from his turn of his life. He looked to form before him, smirking slightly as he again tries to meet her gaze. "Aside from that, I tend not to share too well.", he uttered these words as he stares to her.
Recommended Comments