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.”
"Call me Bran," he said, sinking into the cushion as the dim light of the candles flickered around the tent. "Money, mostly. A lot more can be made on the road wielding a blade than on a farm wielding a pitchfork," Bran explained, his eyes scanning the curious assortment of trinkets and herbs scattered around the tent.
"I wasn't born into anything; nothing was ever meant to be mine," he continued, his voice carrying the weight of weariness and determination. "But there's something about the road, the freedom of it. I've learned to rely on my skills, my instincts. It's not just about the coin; it's about finding purpose and testing myself against the unknown."
Bran leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. "I've faced bandits, monsters, and all sorts of challenges. Yet, there's always more to discover, more to prove. And here I am, drawn to this swampy town by fate, or so it seems."
He locked eyes with the old hag, trying to discern the reason behind her expectation. "So, what do you know, old one? Why were you expecting me, and what role does this dingy town play in my story?" Bran inquired, a spark of curiosity glinting in his eyes.
Recommended Comments