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?))
Lorens studies the hag, unsure of her intentions. He sits without a word still attempting to decipher her motives. "My..story?" he finally speaks, apprehensive in tone. "Ain't sure I have much of a good one." the candlelight flickers, almost calling his bluff. His accent, now clearly foreign, is thick yet sheepish; he had clearly never been asked of his past before. "I'm nothing more than a farmhand." he speaks again, "Never really ventured off this far." he looks down, submissive, uncomfortable, his eyes darting at every little creak of the ramshackle housing outside the tent. After a long silence he raises his eyes again to the woman, "What's it to you?" His facade of dominance and control is seen through, the woman not responding to his query. Knowing resistance is futile, he begins again, "I've worked the farms ever since I was old enough to, never left, never wanted to." His words seem to get stuck in his throat, "My father... he..." At the mention of his father, he becomes clearly emotional, his eyes welling and his lip quivering. After a few seconds he continues, "He was a farmhand, just as I, until he was cut down by riders not too far from our homestead." He looks down at his hands, his fingertips and knuckles blistered and bruised either from the labour or the riding he had done to arrive in the town. "Ever since he died, I've had to take up the mantle as the provider, sowing the fields, tending the horses, doing anything for a copper to feed my mother." He raises his eyes once more, "She's sick. I've been riding for days from town to town, city to city to try and find a healer for her." The well in his eyes begins to turn to tears, streaming down his face, "I can't lose her too. I'll do whatever it takes to keep her with me," He pauses for a second and reemphasises, "Whatever it takes." He wipes the tears from his eyes, taking a breath. His tone shifts to that of anger, "If I ever find those riders I... I..." He can't bring himself to finish. He sighs, stands and takes one last look at the crone. His shimmering eyes are that of a conflicted man, the left wanting liberation from the anger inside him and a fruitful life for his family, the right wanting to take up arms against all who have wronged him, bringing bloodshed to those wishing to harm his family again, and both together, a man of no repute, no wealth, and no confidence. He steps out of the tent, soaking in the midsummer heat and begins toward his horse. His story may not be unique, his motives not extraordinary, but the legacy he leaves is yet to be written.
