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?))
Athri'lirr grinned sharply, leathers creaking as he settled into the seat the old hag motioned to. "You have, huh? What much is there to tell? I grew up in Nor'Asath, like most Mali'ker. My father was a blacksmith, and I learned the craft before the lure of comraderie and reward in service of the Silan'siol drew me away." He chuckle ruefully, patting a sword on his hip. "Fifteen years as a simple soldier, now I'm nothing but a sell sword, to High Elves no less. Celia'nor and Tahn'miar have numerous folks needing protection on the road." He shook his head, dislodging a silvery white strand of hair from its bun. "I'm here like most, looking for work, escorting or protecting, hunting or whatever is needed, anything to make money. But why have you been expecting me of all people? I'm nothing but a wandering sword these days. Nothing special."
