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.”
Togaro takes the seat eagerly, and gives a thankful nod. Visibly bruised and battered, with eyes dim from long travels, he takes a long moment to ponder before responding. "My story is not yet complete, wise one, and as of now has not bore much fruit." His brow furrows slightly, and his eyes seem distant. "I am Togaro, and I'm on a journey to hone my skills as a swordsman. I have been training my mind and body since I was a boy, but I still have so much more to learn." He shifts his body slightly, as if uncomfortable in his own skin. "I've fought many men. I've bested many men. Yet with every victory, a defeat soon follows. As if I'm being reminded that there's always someone better... stronger... I-" His brow furrows further, and his eyes gain clarity as he looks up to meet the gaze of the woman. "Wise one, what do you mean you've been expecting me?"
