Urban

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?)) With little hesitation, Reynard would state to the old crone within the tent, "Why? You want to write my biography? It's a boring tale, not much to say," he pauses, whilst keeping one eye peered on the tent's entrance, "However, since you asked. My name is Reynard De La Roche. I was born in a forgotten hole of a village too similar to this one for my liking. In that hole, I was born to an adrian woman and a father whose name I don't remember." He yawns loudly whilst stating the following, "Idiot died in some war against a rebellious baron before I was even born, at least that's what my mother would always say. Although she was never able to remember the baron's name...probably a lie she told herself to comfort the pain of her man leaving her." he continued, " It matters little now, she died in that forgotten hole of a village when it burned to ash courtesy of an orc raiding party. But I had left that place long before that occurred, and I mostly traveled from place to place, poaching game and whatnot. Sometimes, I work as a courier, and carry items of good value whose buyers either wish to circumvent their kingdom's tariffs or value a little bit of discretion in their purchase of goods." He remembers a book requested by a canonist priest, whose writing could not be described as nothing less than heretical. After that thought, he continued "I have a contact near here, an old friend, whose name is not important. I have a partnership in mind, one that could be lucrative to all involved, if we are able to assemble the right crew." *He stands up from the cushion, before turning back from the crone, "And with that, I must go, the road beckons to me and I shall not disobey, farewell."