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 look over the older woman's features and withhold a slight look of distaste. "I prefer to stand, thank you." I cross my arms over my chest and lean on my left leg. "I was told by a traveling merchant that this place had some materials I needed for a few projects of mine." I wave my hand dismissively, but I appear caught off guard by the next question. "My story? I doubt you'd like to hear a story as boring as that. Average life with average occurrences outside of being thrown out of my home. I'm just a traveling artificer now, and that's a life I find much more preferable. So if you will excuse me, I must be on my way."
