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?)) Jorah gives an ironic dry chuckle as he sits, eyes drifting around the room before settling on the hag. He relaxes his posture, feet spread apart and slouched so his elbows rested on his knees. His eyes fall away from the woman as he compiles his thoughts. "My story is nothing special. Father was a trader, mother a seamstress. House Spyre he used to call it. My mother thought one day we'd be as big as any of them." Jorah's eyes raise back up to look upon the woman, studying her more closely before glancing to the side. "She told me I'd be someone someday, bring our house to light. Well..." He raises his palms in a 'look at me' gesture. His grey tunic was open at the collar, his belt holding a worn sword in scabbard. A surcoat surrounded his pants, providing a little protection to his calves. "When I was a boy I wanted to be a knight, so my mother had a man teach me the sword. Perhaps one day I'll see to it she was right. Our little House Spyre, banners waving alongside the big ones."
