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?))
Sanishka, with a complexion that had now turned from glum to a rouge cheerfulness, let the sole shoulder-bag he carried fall from his personage. His body, seemingly revitalized, made a little jolt as he crouched into the entrance of the tent and sat down, his beerish belly rebounding under its thin cloth covering. "Only for a slice of bread- and maybe some beer. Actually sorry, too much for a stranger to ask -- I'll take the beer." His eyes instinctively peered up to scan for a reaction, a smile maybe. "I kid. I was just run outta another town- couldn't tell ya which one. Truth is I've been runnin' for awhiles now, but that don't make a mina a difference to me -- once ya start you never stop, it seems. As far as my story goes, it's a relatively simple one -- my father was a comedian. Funniest guy I ever met, ne-er a man funnier than him, not even me." He leaned back and exhaled, brushing away the signs of hurt that crept across the juvenile wrinkles on his face. "Maybe I think that cause he was my pap -- or maybe it's cause a guy can't crack a smile in this whole godforsaken kingdom without fearing for his life." His fists squeezed in frustration, then released. "Anyway -- why was I talkin' about my dad? Oh yeah, the comedian business. My dad was a jester -- a good one too, a damn good one. He was a jester to the Duke of Vidaus, even. Now that's a chap who could not break a smile -- no matter what my dad tried. He kept my dad round though, don't know why. Anyway, my dad's doin' all these tricks -- real Ruskan style. Jumping' around, legs kickin', arms in the air." Sanishka repeated these movement with his arms, and true delight shined brightly in his eyes. "He was eighty when he was doin' all this by the way. And so he died, as all men do, and I took over." He pauses to think. His arms falling naturally to his stomach, which he held. "First thing I did was think -- how can I gain the respect of this here Duke? Never did his lips betray one smile. One. So I get to thinking -- maybe it's because he wants someone strong -- someone with balls like 'im." His arms swing back up from his potbelly."So -- my first day on the job -- I go straight to him and I tell 'im he could shove his frowny face right up his you-know-who." He laughs a deep laugh. "Had to run for my life. So I haven't stopped runnin' sense. Made some friends, made more enemies. I'm trying to get back into the respectful way of doin' things. And that's been my story -- the long version, at least. Can I get some beer now? I'll take whatever you got." Sanishka, a slight smile grazing his lips, eyed for any alcohol that could be found within the tent.
