LysolAllPurpose

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?)) Mud carefully laid his claymore at his side as he dropped to the floor, a quiet thud echoing. He studied the hag a moment longer before answering. "My story, eh?" His nostrils flared as he let out a weary sigh. "I come from the North in search of kin." He undoes the wraps in his forearm, examining a bite mark he'd recently sustained. "We were but lads, taken. Made into thralls." He glances around at the candles, before setting his piercing gaze upon the hag. "But you can't shackle a highlander."