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?))
Sypn sits himself down on the cushion, tossing his blacksmithing apron aside. The young man would set out small bags of tools and daggers he had made. "You know of me?" He'd say with a smile, "Perhaps you'd like to purchase some of my goods? I've been travelling from the Heartlands to sell my goods since it's gotten far too dangerous up there; do you know of anyone I could sell them to?"
