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?))
Through several steps Cicero settles within the smaller tent, sitting just in front of the older lady as he settles down. A horizontal fist bump onto his chest to clear his throat before he speaks any word, as to announce his presence. "I'm a courier. Freely I travel through land high and low, see each detail of our world, to see the bright and hollow sky, and to see the stars that shine so bright. Because I courier all, items to people, information and thought."
Reaching into a smaller bag resting by his waist, attached through a softly sown strap laying on his shoulder. Out he pulls a letter, swiftly opening it and unveiling its folds, only to see its paper empty. "Handing out and writing just as many letters to countless amounts of people, yet I've still not written a single one for myself. Each passing day, each sight I get to see, sunset, battle, view from a mountaintop, carrying its own thought, still without display. Before my end meets me, the paper I am holding will be filled with my own very words, each a memory I had stored within my head. Though I've only enough for but a sentence. I cannot begin my next set of words without your help, and so I request that you point me toward my next verse."
