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?))
He stood wary of her. No visual threat. He drew in a deep breath; the unpleasant odours hit his nose. It wasn’t the first time he had been in the slums, and it probably wouldn’t be the last.
He shifted his weight, crouching down to a lower level in an attempt to make himself comfier. After a pause, he opened his mouth to speak.
“Nothing unusual in my story. I come from a loving family who are still back at home, still eating meals, still living ordinary but decent lives. My father was away quite a lot doing god-knows what. My father’s brother, my uncle Henryk, he was someone I was close to and respected. He always carried me on his shoulders when we were outside the house exploring together. Henryk decided it would be a good idea to teach me how to arm myself properly—the basics of swordplay. He taught me well until I was fourteen. By then, I knew I wouldn’t improve anymore. That’s when I decided to journey away from the warmth of my family and enter the real world. Traveling from town to town, road to road, I kept learning with each new place I reached.”
He stopped, realizing he’d rambled more than he ever wanted to. He felt no ill intentions or malice, only the strange compulsion forcing him to bare his story to a hag he’d never met.
