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?))
"Oh you have?! Well..." I go quit for a second, looking pensive and musing on my words. This unknown old woman suddenly summoning me and now asking about my life, has me somewhat on edge. The humid swamp air makes it difficult to breathe, and it thickens somewhat with anticipation. I sit down and look at the old woman. "I am Syphia and there's not much of a story, really. I'm just a woman from Rohauric, you wouldn't know it, it's a small trade town near the Iron Horde's capitol." I say enthusiastically, "My parents are farmers there, and I spent ages helping out the caravanners there. The stories they told me about their travels always enamoured me, so when I got the chance to join a caravan a few weeks ago, I took it. We've spent a few weeks on the road now, trading salt, green dye and orc goods for various produce you can't really get in the desert."
As I talk, the previous tenseness ebbs away, and I feel like I can breathe properly again. "There's not much more to tell you, I think. I mean, I could talk to you a bit about the stories I've gathered and things I've learned so far. But there's not that much more to tell you about my story, I think." I say and look at the crone in anticipation.
