Homer

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?)) *Lets off a grown while scratching his head* Homer: Arrr, us halflings’ve got livers o' iron, but I reckon that brown bottle fever hit me harder than me kickers could handle. *Sits up from leaning over* Can’t rightly recall how I've woken here, but a tall lad, claimin’ to be some marine merchant, came into Storia's local tavern and offered Cortus and I a ride cross' the teal pond back to our humble farmin village Harrowden. Must’ve been dropped off at the wrong shore, if ye ask me. Apologies for ole' him and I. Last time I ran into mages like yer'self, oh 'bout twelve years ago, the evening ended in a bundle o' hay on the back of a rusty wagon. *Leans in, raises an eyebrow* Say, ye wouldn’t happen to know how far we be from Storia's port, would' ya? Any clue where me short feller, little less handsome, Cortus is? *Homer shifts back in an upright position and looks down, his voice heavy and almost groaning* Things ain't always been simple, not fer a halfling like meself. I wish they were, though. *Exhales* livin' used to be easy, til' thirty-two years ago, them Highlanders from the north came down in their thick brown fur coats an' tainted em' red, they took what I loved most from me. *Looks further down, mutterin' under his breath* Harrowden ain't been the same since.