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?))
I think for a moment before responding, "I have a simple story, I was born to my mother and father, Hignere and Thrasgreac, they were- still are my role-models, typical of any beardling. My father told me to make him proud, in any venture I set to, and that's what I intend to do." Pausing, I shake my head, trying to clear my thoughts. "Although, what that is, I have yet to know."
