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?)) They sit, almost concerningly unconcerned about the strangeness of the woman or the dinginess of the town.
"See, I'm not used to being asked about my story. Not when I make a living telling stories all about other people." The candle light glints on metal strings, belonging to the lute strapped to their traveling pack.
They shrug, disturbing the other instruments, a drum, lyre, and multiple flutes. At the sound of the instruments clanging together, they wince. Really, they should be much more careful with what is their entire livelihood.
"I mean, there's not much to it." They tick off each point of their life on lifted fingers. "Grew up in a small town, hitched a ride with a travelling bard, learned how to play and sing from him, inherited his cart and instruments when he died, and now I'm the one travelling and singing. Not the most exciting life, but much more exciting than staying just to live and farm and die in the same place."
They gesture to the cart outside the tent, the one they mentioned. It's beat up, obviously old, but repaired immaculately and in good shape despite its age. The horse hitched to the front of it is in similar shape, old but well maintained.
"All I've got to my name is that cart." They shift, moving to stand, and their coin purse jingles with the sound of many coins. "Well," they laugh, "And the several coins I've also got to my name."
"All I really want, besides what I've already got, is that one perfect person to write my songs about. All I've got is old material that other people wrote, and while that's good enough," something glints in their eyes, maybe just the candlelight, maybe not, "if I find the right person, all it takes is that one song to propel them to fame, and myself alongside them."
They dip their head to the woman as way of goodbye. "But, I must be on my way. Music to play and so on." They step out of the tent, and there's nothing else but the sound of horse hooves and cart wheels left behind.
