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?))
Marlevaur appeared uneasy as he lowered his cloak from the top of his head. His black beard, still small and ragged, shuffled as he settled down to sit. "I...I'm just a simple traveler, or at least I was. Now, I find myself hunted," he said, letting out a low sigh and placing his axe beside him. "I'm still young, and I never should have ventured on that ill-fated caravan. But the elders insisted it was time." As he brushed his young beard, he began to relax slightly.
"We were ambushed and almost everyone perished. Now, I'm in search of a destination I've never been to, without a map to guide me," Marlevaur explained, continuing to stroke his beard, though his unease was slowly increasing. "Who...who are you?" he inquired, his curiosity tinged with caution.
Recommended Comments