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?)) Boromir stairs for a moment, observing the woman and her abode. He sits on the cushion, never once taking his eyes off of the old woman. "I am a ranger" he responds, the crone's face is unchanged, her eyes piercing his own as she lifts her head slightly, encouraging him to speak more. "I've only ever been a ranger. From the time I was a boy, it is all I've ever known.... all I've ever done." "And your family?" she asks, "Dead likely" he responds quickly, "I never knew them, and never cared to learn. My mentor, Boren, was the only family I needed." Saying his name leaves his throat dry, and he bows his head, finally shifting his eyes from the crone and down towards the fire. The light flickers off of his face, the heat draws sweat from his brow and it drips down his face. "And who was he?" the Crone asks. Boromir ponders her question for a moment, then speaks up, "He was like a father to me" he says. "More so than my real kin, whoever they may be. He taught me how to survive...how to track large game and trap small ones, how to start a fire and construct a shelter, how to craft a bow and arrow and use it to take down the beasts of the forest. He taught me how to forage, for food and poisons, he taught me how to look up at the sky and determine how much light is left in the day, he taught me..." his voice breaks. His eyes shift back up to the crone, "he taught me to live." He goes silent once more, staring back into the flames, lost in thought. "And where is he now?" she asks. "Dead" he says coldly, the words are like a dagger in his throat. "How?" she asks. He looks at the woman, anger rising inside him as his face begins to redden. He stays silent, but after a moment he begins to calm down, and then he responds, "We took down a stag, and while we butchered the beast a bear and her cubs approached from the Woodline." It had been years since it happened, yet night after night, he lay awake unable to get rid of the thoughts of that horrible day. "He was mauled by them" he says, "ripped to shreds while I fled." A tear drips down his cheek. "You ran while he died, you coward - the man was a father to you, and you left him to DIE ALON...." his thoughts are silenced by the crone's words, "A noble thing, the old laying down their life so the young may live. He gave you a chance, whether or not his death was in vain relies on what you do now." Her words are soothing. He ponders on her words for a moment, and then responds, "His death will not be in vain. I will make him proud." He rises from the cushion, extends his hand to the crone and thanks her. For 7 years he had carried the weight of his mentors death on his shoulders, blaming himself and secretly wishing for a similar fate. But now he feels.... free. He pushed open the flap of the tent, the light from the sun blinds him and he closes his eyes for a moment. When he opens them outside, the burden of guilt is washed away. He is renewed, hungry for adventure and determined to make a name for himself. As he looks around the town, he draws Boren's Bowie knife, holds it up to the sky and vows to honor him in all that he does, to uphold the lessons he had taught him and ensure his death was not in vain.
