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.”
"Zim's the name" The rough merchant grumbled in retort, "I'm just passing through", simultaneously, light patters of noise arose from his hands, as he tapped his metal and gem covered fingers against his staff. As the mouldy woman mumbled back he adjusted the large stow of goods from on his back to be moreso at his side while he sat. "I've been moving as the wind and flowing with the sea for many moons now, swapping oddities of the world for other strange cases of craftsmanship and the gifts nature has bestowed upon us. I grew up in the world, amongst trading caravans that passed through the likes of Arcas and this village I find myself in today... I aim to forge a route of such scale in these lands!" He looked upward, into the gloomy roof of night as he uttered these last words, still clinking his rings on the timber length, adorned similarly to his fingers, that he followed everywhere. If one were to look long and hard enough they would see the trails Zim has walked imprinted upon his cheeks, the riches and losses deep within his orbs and the tales of his adventures knocked at his lips, waiting for them to open and let the world know.
Zim rises from the seat, jingling and jangling all the meanwhile. "I bid you farewell.." He hesitated somewhat, ".. lovely." The seasoned salesman then wandered off to seek rest, before the final leg of his journey in the morning.
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