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?))
I have been wading through thick forest brush and deep swamp waters to make my way here. I am a drifter, the only clear direction I have, is away from places I have spent too long in. I can't sit idle for too long, that's when trouble starts, and if I'm not in the middle of it, I don't need to be there; but sometimes a little justice needs sprinkling down on those who need it. Like I said, I'm always moving. Wonder what this place has to offer me. A familliar face? No. Probably just another place to drink up, hang my hat and sleep. Hopefully I'm far ahead of anyone familliar. Hopefully.
If I'm to become half the knight I am fated as, I must be lucky enough to find a quest that impassions me. Until then I'll just keep wandering.
"Oh, I just, uh…" you stutter, tensing up. You eye the crone, then back outside the tent. For a moment, the air thickens with anticipation, until…
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