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?)) "Well . . I-" His gaze seems to drift further than where the old hag sat. "It's simple 'nough. Nothing much has ever happened to me, until now . ." He hesitantly rests on the cushion, almost embarrassed to be thinking about himself so much. He felt bad thinking it sounded as though he were complaining. He supposed it was appropriate: "See, I uh-, I was raised by my mum. We was poor, traveling from village to village, to Karosgrad and back singing and trading and working jobs where we could. Thought I'd spend the rest of my life like that. I reckon not, now . . She caught some foul disease last year and was afraid to die in sin. Tol' me my pop had been some soldier from the Heartlands, tall and handsome, a real crackup she said. She knew he didn't want to stay, and she had me anyway. I dunno, I 'spose I never really knew myself, did I?" He looks down, fiddling with a string hanging off the cushion. "Now I dunno want I want . ." He sighs, "Revenge- probably not. But, answers I 'spose. I'll sing my way to the Heartlands, f'only I knew where they were . ."
