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?))
Alaric narrows his eyes, taking in the dimly lit tent and the old hag's scrutinizing gaze. He steps forward, the faint flicker of candles casting shadows on his angular features. He sits on the cushion, his posture straight despite the weariness evident in his eyes.
"I am Alaric, I came from the High Lands" he begins, his voice steady and low. "I've traveled far from the northern reaches, through harsh terrains and perilous paths" he coughs, "Seeking knowledge and purpose. My land is one of strength and resilience, but it is plagued with unrest." He would momentarily stop speaking, as his hands are freezing cold. "My journey began long ago, in a small village where my family worked hard to keep us alive." He would say with a gloomy tone, "We chopped trees, paid our dues to a lord who cared little for our lives, only for the labor we provided. But that life was shattered by some stupid feudal dispute" His eyes would wrinkle, "Leaving me alone and searching for a better fate."
Pausing, Alaric glances at the hag, his expression a mix of curiosity and wariness. "You say you were expecting me. Why? What is it you know about my journey that I do not?"
