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?)) I was born in a yurt in the deserts, my father was a local chief of a small tribe, my mother-killed in child birth was apparently a daughter of a from a duke sent to marry my father as a peace offering. My tribe had a variety of ways getting by, few were near righteous, we traded with frontier-men or raided their caravans. If we were lucky, we could find an unprotected noble scouring the lands and demand ransom for his freedom. But this prosperity only lasted so long. Rival chiefs were vying for power. In there search for such powers they forged petty alliances with powerful kingdoms and empires. My tribe was wiped off the world when I was eight, taking a rather devastating amount of losses in a raid. I was captured and sold into slavery. In the desert's there was a rather common practice in which children such as myself were sent into battles as warrior-slaves. They offered us little practice and my fellow slaves were cut down, battle after battle. But with a bit of luck, I managed to learn my way around weapons. Soon enough I earned my way to freedom by escaping during a feudal skirmish which would eventually tear the tribe I worked for apart. I then worked as a mercenary in places where they would accept child soldiers. That's how I got here earning my fortune through spilling blood. I shiver when I think on how many mothers wept because of my choices in life.
