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?))
Fydel internally questions why she has been summoned here of all places. Despite her disdain for the location, she takes her seat with minimal complaint, only biting the inside of her cheek when the cushion beneath her feels damp.
“I feel as though you already know as much about me as I do myself, but very well. I will entertain the question if it amuses you.”
She pauses, waiting for the crone to give her answer. When the crone nods her to continue, she begins her tale.
“I am a scholar foremost. Others may still find this odd, yes, but I’ve found that the most important weapon in one's arsenal is the ability to form a good argument. My area of expertise, I would say, is my own history, though I do tend to dabble in that of other races. I also find myself very interested in law… But that is neither here nor there, really.”
Fydel leans back in her seat as much as she can without losing her balance.
“So what do you want from me, then? I find it doubtful that all you wanted was a short story.”
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