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?))
Phinn slunk down and shifted nervously in his chair, "It's a long story, Ma'am. If you don't mind the wait I'll spin you my yarn." He managed a smile, though his discomfort shone through clearly, "My father was a Sailor, a fisherman of the port. If you asked him he'd have told you its what made life worth living." The young man's focus drifted, lost in memory for a moment before continuing, "There was a large storm one day, scared half the port off the waters for the day, but my father wasn't one to sit around." Phinn's smile widened, a mix of sadness and pride in his tone, "He nearly got back to the docks too, bested the waves like no other could. But-" His face darkened, "The winds took him and sent him straight off the coast, swept right into the thick of the storm too, that dummy." Phinn chuckled dryly, "I was never an tuned sailor myself, but I tried to follow anyway, tracked the currents until I couldn't anymore." He sighed, shaking his head in shame, "The others declared him dead and sold his dock-space to some uptight trade syndicate, kicked me to the curb. That's why I'm here, got no where else to go." His gaze rose, and he stared at the hag with a tight and forced smile, "The only shot I've got of ever getting home is out there somewhere, stranded, captured, or worse. So I've only got one choice." His tone went cold, and his soft honey-colored eyes went sharp and serious, "I need to find my Father."
