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.”
Vorster would blink looking at the old hag, slightly recoiling from her rather unappealing stature though he'd mount an answer "Let me tell you my story, if you must hear. I was born not too far from here although I'll admit while I grew up it felt like a continent away, my people were not of much heritage. My father was a simple blacksmith and my mother a weaver, though they made alright minas in their professions. My life was well until the Harvest Revolution and its surrounding chaos, my family was uprooted and I was left to defend myself as my parents found a place to support us. They said they'd send a letter when they found somewhere to start a new home, though that message never came. I now am on my own and come to find a new life and support myself and uphold the kindness and love of my mother and father. Perhaps I'll travel to Aaun, Petra, Balian in the south or the frigid lands of Norland. Then again that's for me to know and for you not to"
