Your character has just arrived in a swampy, dim town. As they look around, their gaze is met with shacks and cabins. It smells of rotted wood and wet moss. They 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?))
Bastian pauses for a moment, the silence is only cut gently by the somber sound of a chilling wind. His hand glides up toward his waist where his blade calls home. His stance is not one of threatening, but of uncertainty, he chokes out the words "Me?..." he pauses as he glances around, "I... Surely a humble son of a carpenter means nae much to be waited on.." He swallows in a gulp just barely audible. He reminisces of his time with his father, particularly of the stories about witches and crones who used magic to bring foul misfortunes unto unwitting strangers.
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