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?))
"My story huh?" Brison clears his throat, "Well, I was born into a now forgotten band of sellswords." He sits down and removes the swordless scabard, sighing as he does. "I never knew the warmth of a home, or the peacfulness of townspeople, I only knew the cold steel of the blade." His armor creaks as he shifts, "My father...raised me as a soldier rather than a son." He takes a deep breath, "He died 7 years ago, and even though he never saw me as his son, I saw him as my dad." Brison looks at the hag, "Never mind that, I am here to find a new blade, I lost mine in the mud fields of a battle. I am nothing special in combat but I can say that I have seen it." Brison eyes brighten up as he says, "I wan't to serve a kingdom, somewhere I belong in a company of brothers."
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