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?))
"I was born in Helena, around the southern region of the city." Arthur lifted his helmet placing it on his lap.
He looked into the eyes of the old crone, almost seeking for them as if they were in a deep fog. His skin rippled because of the deep cold that drifted into the tent and while letting out a soft sigh he continues answering.
"My mother, Anastasia, was a tailor, and my father was nowhere to be found." Arthur would move his eyes downwards, seeing the mud take his form deeper because of his weight. "My mother told me he was out adventuring, sending back coin every once and a while to support us but I missed him and I did want to find him."
He looked back up, feeling strangely more welcome than before.
"Although my mother advised me against it, I took to training; learning what I could from her tailoring and from the small collection of books I had lying around the house." I look around the tent, the tattered cloth blowing gently as the gently flickering lantern sat close to her. "At first I took any gigs I could around town but I was still a rascal back then, so I got kicked out by many of them. One stuck though, sell sword."
Arthur slowly dragged his still bloodied blade from its sheathe, looking at the light reflecting on the deep red.
"Because of my loose temper, I learned that my hands knew how to take and give, so a knife wasn't too long of a stretch. Now I wander, still searching for my father but generally being hired for protection and defense although I would enjoy a pause. That's my story."
