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?)) Beoft flexed his jaw as snowy eyes glazed up and down the old hag in the corner of the tent. A bead of sweat dripped from his silvered brows as he makes to take his ursine cowl off his head. He already didn't like this place- it was too humid for his tastes, much preferring an open plain or snowbound tundra, but here was the only place he could get some genuine medicine for his companions back where he came from. Or so that is what the locals say. His countenance leveled minor surprise at being expected, but he realized that is just how these prophetic types are. Always knowing something. When he finally replied, it would be after laying his spear down near the entrance to the tent and nudging a floating candle out of his way. Not taking the offer to sit on the cushion, the weapon would never be too far from his fingertips. The sound that rumbled from his throat mirrored the consistency of gravel, "I do not have much time to socialize."
"Time is the last thing I have."
