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?))
Amiastar looks at the old crone in disgust, contempt flashing across his face for a moment as his hand naturally rests upon the hilt of his shortsword.
"I'm here for you. Witch." he spits that last word out like a bad taste from his mouth. "I'm not going to let you weave your way into my head with your foul sorcery, regardless of you expecting me or not. But fine, I shall sit. An old soldier knows when he must relent and tell his tale."
Amiastar carefully sits on the cushion, rejecting anything handed his way. He tells the hag tales of fighting for hours deep in the heart of the woods. Of numerous blood-soaked battlefields he's stood on over his years. Of the injury he recieved to his arm, barring him from active combat...
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