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 tall, large man proceeded forth across the shambled raft boards and assorted grounds of mixed firmness. His dark complexion and heavy, foreign armor made him stand out like a sore thumb in the small town; however, he had a reason to be here. A powerful woman, learnt properly in the ways of voidal magic. That being said, knowing he possessed many valuable items of war making, he kept a hand tightly knuckled over the scimitar which bucked around his hip.
... The floating candles were a telltale sign he had found what he was looking for. His curved boots were creased as he knelt down, the woven leather's flaps growing heavy with mud and grime. With the equipment doting his body, he knew that he would not remain secret. However, the words spoken to address him as if she knew his identity instantly alarmed him.
One knee creased forward as he instinctively entered a stance of fighting. However, knowing near nothing about magic, and the near mythical status he held with it in his head, he assumed this woman could know almost anything. Therefore, he acquiesced, looking to investigate further into this subject... for his own personal gain.
He crosses his legs, sitting upright and removing the scimitar, laying it down on the floor to his center, in the area between them. "My name is Qareem. My father was Fashir al-Ahmed." Though he spoke with the fullness of his voice, the clenched knuckles on his knees and his squeezed brow suggested the young man was not only out of his element, but nervous to be expunging himself to this woman.
"...There was much violence. I was raised as a camp servant for my father. A mercenary, no doubt. My family.. trade, you could say." His words were heavily encrusted with the accent of his native language. "When he died, I had no choice but to leave home. That was three years ago and he left me his equipments."
No doubt, it could be seen not only that his armor, though well made, was aged and a bit large for him at the sleeves. Nonetheless, it fit him well, and he appeared much mature for his age.
"I seek... knowledge. Many tell me I will never know magic. I want to know if this is true." His brow furrowed as he paused in speech for the old woman to begin...
