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?))
"You were expecting me?"
"Of course, I could feel your presence once you entered town." The crone eyes Barcis up and down, "Your clothes...you come from the big city?"
"Have you been?"
"Your glorious city is part of the reason this town is in the state it is in, cutting off trade routes here, almost everyone has gone and left this dump, but not I. I am going to stay here until the end of my days." The crone fixes her gaze again, "Now, tell me your story." Barcis was about to defend his home, but decided it would be in his best interest not to upset the Crone, for who knows what curses would follow him should he upset her. "Where to begin...well, as you know, I come from the big city. There I was raised by my eldest brother whose a paladin."
"Oh ho, a Defender of the Weak."
"Yea, before he was one he would stay home with, but now I hardly see him as of late.
He always tried to teach me swordplay and take on the ways of a paladin, but I always had an affinity for druidry."
"Oooh," the crone raises and eyebrow, "And what has come of your studies now?"
"...nothing, I am still seeking for someone to teach me, it's one of the reasons I have explored this far out." I pause, looking at the crone, "Is there any chance that maaaaaayybe you could teach m-."
"No." The crone says sharply.
"Damn, ok."
"What about your parents? What has come of them?" The crone questions.
"That I don't know. My brother raised me ever since I could begin to walk. And whenever I question him about it, he gets tense, sometimes even angry with me."
"Sounds like he's hiding something from you," the Crone chuckles.
"...I think so too, and I know it has something to do with our parents."
"You sure you can't remember anything?"
"Nothing at all."
"Maybe it is by design that you can not remember." The crone suggests.
"What do you mean by design?"
"Maybe your brother is protecting you from something."
"He would never do that...he only protects the weak."
"Still...it is something to think about."
Barcis looks down at his hands, "I'll find out the truth one day, what really happened to my mother and father."
