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.”
Loránd's nose had instantly wrinkled as he entered the musty tent, a worried look creeping over his face as he looked to cushion at his feet. An almost puzzled expression crossed his face at the notion to sit. He remained standing, a palm resting against the pommel of his shortsword as his jaw moved slightly, a grumbling response echoing throughout the tent. "I do not know intentions crone, so I keep it short. My father was passionate man, told me how to carry myself and blade. I would be separated from rest of kin on Almaris as I found myself lost in caverns until arriving Aevos. Now? I have returned to kin at Haense." A smirk crested the edges of his lips as Loránd stood proud, eyes locked down to the crone. "I hope this explains much, I do not wish to make return to such dingy home." With a flick of his wrist, the stalky Highlander rose a hand, waving off the crone as he spun on the balls of his feet, swiftly making his exit from the tent.
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