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 am a man who once had a home. Once. Not just my home, but that of my people, the people of Suganda. I am the man my people trusted to protect them from forces dark and cruel and failed. What fate is worse? To have failed utterly and died against the invader or to be forcibly driven out, to live in the shame of your defeat. I may be the man who lost them a home but at least, I can hope to give them a new one. I wonder if that is the tale they will tell of me, Qrongzah of Suganda."
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