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 come from the outskirts of Meadowbrook, nestled in-between the hills and a lazy river. All of my life I've tended to my family's meager crops. Dear woman, each dawn, when the dew kisses the wheat, I would wish to myself that the land could whisper secrets of a more thrilling life beyond the horizon. My muscles, hardened from toil, long for a challenge. The endless dance of the seasons offers change, but I long for a different kind of adventure. I will become a Shinobi
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