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?)
"The names Zaarn. What do you care anyway, hag?" The warrior exudes a certain intimidation that defies his lack in stature. His hair is untamed and covered in grease, contrasted uncannily by his piercing blue eyes that shine from under it, scarcely visible. After recieving no audible response other than the crackling of candle flame, he decides to continue anyway.
Zaarn lowers himself onto a nearby cushion, landing heavily. He begins to speak, slurred slightly from his tusks, "I'm a warrior by blood, and I've fought alongside my brothers since I was old enough to swing an axe," he then shifts his gaze downward to the rotted floor, "However, I was a coward. I watched my kin die in a harsh battle, and I ran, with a sense fear rather than vengeance. Now I'm ashamed to go back to them, and I'm looking to settle somewhere new and prove myself as worthy again."
The hag returned his story with a gentle smile, thanking Zaarn kindly. She hands him a map, promising a safe, kind home. He accepts it, sticking out his hands covered with battle scars, and tucks the paper into his armor before ducking out of the hut and setting out on his way. He was glad he had heard of the seer from his comrades, and glad she had helped him too.
