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.”
Larson sits down on the cushion, looking at the hag, he begins to speak. "I've fallen upon dark times, old hag." He peers beyond her, looking around the tent. His hands clasp and fold in his laps. "My father was a drifter, a sellsword, who traveled from village to village. He settled with my mother, a milkmaid, and has stayed with her since." He frowns, pausing. "He's been missing, though, and my mother is sick. I'm searching for him, for he might be able to help cure her illness." He looks to the hag, huffing a sigh. "I've been lost, but the locals tell me you might be able to help me." He'd extend a hand, a small set of coins placed within his palm. "Where should I go?"
