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?))
"Im only passing by, not looking for any trouble." He says, bewildered by the old woman's statements. He then loses all sense of skepticism and sits like a child about to read a book, cross legged on the cushion. "Well, ive not a good story to share, I must say, but is still one none the less." He says before taking a deep breath and beginning. "Born 3 weeks early, I was keen as anything to get moving. I began walking at 6 months old, at least that's always what mother said, and began working our squalid farm at the age of 4. I was from a family who used to live in a city, ages away, take 3 days by horse if you could believe it. But I was never told why we were farmers, suppose I never asked. I had an older sister, Tilda, who was nearly ready to leave the nest. I was eight when she came home with Bently, a burly monster of man, who could cut wood and wrangle sheep at the same time! I always liked Bently, but my father did not. My father did not like a lot of people, would rather keep his family together than grow it. I was once being shown how to work the axe by Bently, even though I was a mere tween of 10 years. Cutting like a wild thing, in my ignorance I cut off my left little finger!" He says pulling his hand up to show a rounded stump where his finger once was. "That was the last straw for dad. He used that same axe and took Bently's head with it. Tilda was destroyed, my mother mortified. I was simply crying as I watch his head roll to my feet. Now I can never bring myself to work the chopping block, or use an axe at all for that matter. Soldiers came a few days later, and that's the last I saw of dad. Tilda left a week or so later, ran off to raise Bently's child. Was just me and mum at that point. She showed me a thing or two about sewing and cooking, and self sufficiency women were relied upon performing for men, so that I could live out a life alone when the time came. I was a young man of 16 when mother passed on a cold winter. I'm sure you heard of a mother's passing to chill winter plagues a hundred times, but what's left is normally wealth to the children. All I had were a few chickens too old to roost and cows who provide less and less milk. So after a hard season I sold the land and stock for a meagre fortune and decided to try and find my place in the world. I was a smithy for a while, surprisingly had the hands for it." After saying that he chuckled to himself while staring at his hands. "Last year though I saw my dad. I was working a makeshift stall in a town a little more dry than this one, when I saw him, rugged clothes and blade in hand, madness in his eyes. I didn't even know if he saw me, I just ran. And I ran and I ran and I ran and collapsed. A cart took me to a small village where I was rejuvenated by some herbs, and that is something I will never forget. I was tempted to stay, make a life for myself, but I realized that I fear being content, because it has always lead me to disaster and guilt. So I set out with some smiths tools and a will of iron to become and adventurer of the world, never staying in one place for long, working where I can. And now I'm here, rambling way too much as usual. I don't suppose you are the kind of lady to offer tea are you?" he asks with a comedic grin but sad eyes.
