Your character has just arrived in a swampy, dim town. As they look around, their gaze is met with shacks and cabins. It smells of rotted wood and wet moss. They 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?))
Ris 'the Lanky' Praxillus steps forward, brushing the damp, frizzy strands of hair from his face. He's tall, even by Highlander standards, and the bulk of his armor weighs heavily on his broad, yet somehow still underdeveloped frame. Despite the bags underneath, his eyes are sharp, scanning the dim corners of the tent before settling on the old woman.
"Well," he begins, his deep voice a bit gravelly, "I'd nae say it's much of a 'story'." He lowers his shoulders slightly as he sits on the cushion, giving a brief, uncertain glance at the candles floating above them. "But, aye. My father bade me leave to serve Lord Vindacus. The man's… well, a tad unhinged, I'd say. He claims there’s land to be had down this way, I’ve my doubts. Still, I've naught else to do, and so I find meself in thy sunshine forsaken town."
He shifts uncomfortably, trying to sit with some semblance of composure as he wrings his wet hair. "As for me, I'm just a squire, learning the ways of knighthood - though, truth be told, I'm yet to grow used to the airs of nobility. I've seen little share of battle, aye, but nobility feels… foreign, to say the least." He looks up at the crone. "I'm unsure what it is ye might require of one like meself, but if ye've need for a hand, I'll not turn ye away."
