Wraithful

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?))

"Fine, if you insist, old hag.." Jorenn moved to finally rest on the cushion, releasing a sigh as he began to retell his life. "I was born into a poor family, living inside the red city of Karosgrad. Back then, things were simpler.. Always looked up to the soldiers, so much so that I lied to get in to the local militia when I was just sixteen." He chuckled, "I didn't last long. Eventually my parents found out, they were furious and sent me away to live on my own." His expression turned sour.. "And so I found myself a wanderer, until I was passing through a quaint little village on the outskirts of the city. A woman invited me in, seeing my sorrowful state. She beckoned me in for pie and a warm fire, which I accepted.. She eventually became my wife, and her house became our house." Jorenn laughed. ".. How the time flies. I went back to Karosgrad, but I was too late, my father had passed. My mother was left to fend for herself, so she lived with us for a while. I eventually returned to the army, hoping to reach a comfortable position. Good pay, too. Now my scars are many, and pain too great.." He groaned, clutching his aching back. "It was good. All too good." He slowly nodded to the hag, finally setting down the urn with the ashes of his wife, Ismerelda within. A tear fell. "I must be on my way, now."