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?))
"Thank you, oh crone." Gwinirin says sweetly as he walks to the cushion. He reaches behind his back and pulsl the lute strapped to his back to the front of him. "Though, I think it may be better if I performed it," Gwinirin's fingers rest on the strings at the neck while the others slowly move from the intricate woodwork of the ribs to the body of the instrument, "my name is Gwinirin, I am of the Sage Grove." At this moment He starts to pluck a quiet, but lilting melody. "This is my story."
