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?))
A:
Eos narrows his eyes, taking in the old hag with a measured glance before stepping forward. He lowers himself onto the cushion, the leather of his coat creaking as he sits. "My story?" His voice is calm but direct, lacking any hint of uncertainty. "I’m no poet or bard. I fix the broken—bind their wounds, stop the bleeding, and move on. My hands do the talking." He pauses, watching her closely. "But if you’ve been expecting me, you must know that already." He leans forward slightly, eyes sharp. "I'm not famous around these parts, So, what is it you really want from me?"
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