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?))
Varin hesitated. There was something strange about this place-and her-that didn't sit right. He'd travelled too far to care, and something deep down told him this was no ordinary encounter.
"I'm no storyteller," He took a seat, not letting his eyes travel from the old woman's. "But if you're expecting some sort of grand tale, you're out of luck. I've lived through cold, survival, and famine. Not much more to it than that."
His gaze wandered finally, a piece of wet moss preparing to fall had caught his attention. He was accustomed to the silence in the wilderness, but this was different.
