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?))
"Been a lifetime, lass. Surprised ye' recognize me." Anders says, a feisty look overtaking his crumpled features, riddled both with scars and the marks of old age. He enters the tent, takes a seat and winks at the old woman. It looks more like an awkward blink on account of Anders only having one functional eye, but the crone catches on.
She laughs and croaks. "Ye' mean to seduce me again, do you? Aren't we a bit too old for that?"
"T'is true." Anders says, warming his old bones by the fire. "I ain't what I used to be back when the Ashguard rolled in 'ere last during Norland's great war with Urguan. By the Allfather, those were the days..."
The old hag doesn't pay any mind to his antic attempt at a war story. She'd much rather focus on all the mud and stink the old vagabond brought within her tent, her thick brows furrowed and dismayed.
"But, ye know..." He blabbers on, his hand slinking past the cover of his dirty, brown cloak with holes in it to unveil a sparkling stamina potion. "...There's remedies."
He flashes her a grin of rotted, yellowed teeth. Her brows furrow further.
The scenery pans out within the quiet little town in the swampy bog. Through the dim lighting of torches and lamps, one could see the tent. Hollering is briefly heard from within. Curses of all kinds. Soon enough, Anders stumbles out of the fluttering tent, his head walloped one last time by the old crone's broom. He falls to the ground, and the potion he paid so much for falls with him. The glass vial cracks, and the liquid spills upon the muddy ground entirely.
He sighs, struggling to stand back up as crickets resound within the quiet little swamp village. He looks down towards the ruined potion's sparkling contents, now stained by the mud. He then looks towards the tent, takes a deep breath in, and. . .
"**** ***, you little **** ****** ******** ****!!! May lightning strike your ***** **** *** ****! **** **** ****** ***!!"
There's no response. A few heads still meandering within the village past nightfall turn to observe the cursing vagabond before turning back to their own devices.
He sighs, having let out all his anger. He then turns and limps towards the nearest tavern. Defeated. Ready to drink his sorrows away.... again.
