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?))
Jon sits across from the old hag. "Well, growing up I did not have a mother or a father to speak of, I've been on my own for as long as I remember. As a child, I would jump from town to town, looking for any work, and trying to feed myself. Times were hard up until I found Desmond. Desmond was one of the captains of a decent sized militia group. He taught me lots of things, things like protecting myself. I rode with him and his group up until one night. We rode out at night, looking to get anything off this group that we had found setting up camp in the middle of the woods. We didn't know that they had already seen us, and planned a counter-attack. The group that I was riding with, including Desmond were brutally ambushed with a array of arrows. We were all wiped out in the matter of seconds. I didn't get hit though, and ended up playing dead on the group, next to my fallen comrades. Desmond always carried the biggest sword, that nobody else could swing. With all my anger built up, I waited until later on in the night and grabbed Desmond's sword. I invaded the camp, and killed over two dozen men, all by myself. I still carry Desmond's sword today, as a lesson to not get too close to people anymore, and to fend for myself and myself only.
Recommended Comments