OrwellianFright

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.” ** Brynden Thorne takes a seat on the cushion next to the hag. He unbuttons his cloak and pulls back his hood, revealing his fatigued countenance. ** "Aye, it has been many moons, indeed. I just rode down from Owynsburg. It was a long ride and my sores are many. Can you spare a touch of ale for these tired hands? It would help loosen my lips for ye, my lady." ** Brynden Thorne flashes his crooked smile. He accepts a cold mug from the hag. ** "Tell me, my lady. Do you know of me? I am what you call a soldier of fortune. My sword serves the highest bidder. And tonight, the person with the deep pockets in question has sent me here. To you." ** Brynden Thorne jabs a gloved finger at the hag's chest. His smile quickly dissipates. ** "I have been bid by my patron, the noble Lord Lancaster, to seek you out. He has tasked me with exacting his revenge upon some local cutthroat. Perhaps, you know the man I seek? Perhaps, perhaps... you can assist me in my endeavor. Perhaps?" ** Brynden Thorne slips out a gold piece. He flicks it in the air, catching it between his left index and pointer fingers. Thorne wags the coin in the hag's direction, tempting her avarice with each flick of his wrist. **