unholyboi

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?)) Avern crinkles his nose, entering the tent with some hope that things might be more lavish inside. Of course, given his obvious surroundings, his hopes are quickly dismissed. He spends a moment, regarding the suspended candles, before dropping his heavier bags to the ground, hoping to avoid grime. "Sales, milady." He answers her first question dismissively, almost as though his goals should be obvious. He cringes at her recognition, however, before letting out a small huff. Avern dusts off the cushion a bit, before he brings himself to sit on it. "My story, huh?" He almost wants to laugh. He barely restrains himself from doing so. Instead, he tilts his head back, dodging eye-contact as he does. "It's pretty simple. I mean-" He shrugs his shoulders. "Baby bird leaves the nest a little early, starts a life as a salesman. You've got to catch the worm somehow, haven't you?" His statement is true enough, but vague enough to leave plenty to be desired. He spreads his hands out, as if prompting for some response to his rhetorical question. Avern doesn't wait for one, though, instead shifting to cross his legs in front of him, and continue speaking. "What do you really want to know? You can't honestly expect me to give you everything without a little bit of coin." His mouth curls into a sharp smile, slightly cold, and maybe even harsh. Behind his eyes, however, Avern harbors obvious secrecy. There's certain things you just don't share with strangers. He isn't stupid enough to spill his guts to just anyone. His jewelry, however, denotes quite enough. There's little in the way of family signets, mostly decorative chains or varied engravings. Precious stones and gold, but little in terms of identification. Nothing in the way of pride of any heritage, scarcely anything in reflecting his ancestry, or his life. There's things, here and there, to denote his traveling career, his practice as a salesman, but such things should be less important than symbols of family. And yet, there are none. His eyes trace the old woman's form, watching her as if she might pounce on him, as if she might already be unraveling his past. Avern folds his arms around his stomach, and leans towards her. "Are you going to buy it off me, or not?" He sighs, somewhat exasperated as he tucks his hair behind his ear. Fine. If a story is what's wanted from him, he'll spin a yarn and hope it's enough to satisfy her. His smile has dropped from his face, turning somewhat cold and tired. "I had a brother. My parents let him die. I spoke out, I got kicked out. Now I'm a salesman." His tone is cold, angry. Before he speaks again, he straightens his posture, and draws a deep breath. "Good enough for you? I think so." Avern waits for no answer, again. "Now, it's about time you bought something, hm?"