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?))
The candlelight dances in your weary eyes. You don't sit so much as collapse onto the cushion, the weariness of a thousand hard days settling around you. You meet her ancient gaze, your own hardened by a life without softness.
"Expecting me?" you rasp, your voice like gravel from disuse. "Hope you didn't bother setting out the good china."
You lean forward, the scent of swamp rot and old magic clinging to your worn leathers.
"The story? It's short and smells like the gutter. They call me Pannus. No family name. No house sigil. My crest is a quick hand and a faster blade."
"My childhood was a teacher of sharp lessons. How to pick a lock, pick a pocket, and which guards' patrols to pick to avoid. I learned to fight in filthy alleys for a moldy crust of bread. I didn't have a wooden sword; I learned to parry with a rusted dagger. I didn't have a father to teach me honor; the city taught me that honor won't fill your belly."
"You learn to trust the weight of a coin purse, not the word of a man. You learn that the only thing that's truly yours is the scar on your skin and the will to see the next sunrise."
You gesture around the tent, then back at her.
"So. You see a story written in scars and stolen silver. What is it you think you need from it?"
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