Your character has just arrived in a swampy, dim town. As they look around, their gaze is met with shacks and cabins. It smells of rotted wood and wet moss. They 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?))
He removes his helm and sits, posture straight, gaze steady upon the crone.
“In my youth, I was sworn,” he begins, voice low and measured. “Not unto crown nor coin, but unto the Lord’s truth.”
He pauses briefly.
“I have walked through towns grown complacent, where men name righteousness yet follow their own ease.”
His expression hardens.
“It is written: wide is the gate, and broad is the way, that leadeth to destruction — and many there be which go in thereat.”
A gauntleted hand rests upon his knee.
“Few choose the narrow path. Fewer still stand upon it when it grows steep.”
His eyes meet hers again.
“So I wander. Where fear rules, I remain. Where wrong is done openly, I do not pass by. I look not for power or wealth, but to walk in truth and light”
A slight incline of his head.
“That is my purpose.”
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