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?))
“Well,” he began, resting his elbows on his knees. “My story, you already know the roots of it, don’t you?”
Her eyes gleamed, but she said nothing.
“I’m still farming, just like my father did. Still working on the north farm. But the winters…” He shook his head. “They come sooner now. Meaner. I can’t keep the soil alive past the first frost. Nothing grows but grief.”
He glanced around the tent again. Some of the jars were new. Others hadn’t moved in over 7 years.
“I’ve been looking for something stronger. Crops that can survive the deep cold. I’ve walked half a week south chasing rumors, but in the end, they all pointed back to you.”
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