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?))
I step cautiously into the tattered tent. The old hags eyes pierce through the dimness, studying me with a certain intensity. I reply, "I am the son of a humble farmer, my father passed away when I was but a boy, leaving me to care for my mother and younger siblings. Life was harsh and the land was even harsher, we struggled to survive. My uncle, a seasoned warrior, took me under his wing, teaching me the ways of the sword and the honour of the fight." I pause glancing at the hag. "By my teenage years, I had gathered a small band of mercenaries. Not for the glory or the riches, but to protect those who could not protect themselves, we became a force against the darkness that threatened our lands. Bandits, sorcerers and evil creatures could not even stand against us. Yet my heart remains heavy as I remember what I fight for, seeing the future evil growing stronger."
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