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?))
Jaquavius pauses in his tracks, glancing towards the elderly woman. His eyes wandered over her decrepit figure, nose wrinkling faintly from her filth. He hesitated a moment, before taking a seat beside her. “I was born in Adria. Lived there all my life. Worked on the farms, helped the family make a living, you know. But now, I seek a soldier’s life.”
