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?))
"Well, I don' know where to begin..." He says, scratching the sore on the back of his neck. A cheery bright smile sits on his face, not breaking even from the pain of the sensitive sore. He takes a pause before he begins speaking, trying to find where to begin. "Well, ya see I was bo'n in an ol' farm ou' in the middle o' nowhere. My paren's were both farmas, and deir specialty was turnips. Man, I tell ye dey grew da swee'est 'n most juiciest turnips in all of de world. My fatha grew em, but de real magic happened when my motha got 'er hands on dem. She could make dem taste like anyting ye like. From steak ter cake n even puddin', she could make em taste like anyting ye want. Because of dis, I grew up pretty happy, n had very few wan's." He pauses again for a minute, as if remembering fonder times. "Well den I grew up n decided to go make a name fer muhself. So, here I am. Travellin' da world lookin' fer a place to settle down and grow some turnips of muh own. My travels jus' so happened to bring me through dis area." His smile has now faded, as if he was hiding the true reason he left home. Before he can be questioned any further, he puts back on a cheery face raises his voice. "Well now dat I've introduced muhself, ye got any food? I'm starvin' n haven' eaten in over 45 minutes."
