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?))
“You got any ale?” he slurred. “Well… my dream was to be the greatest swordsman in the world, so I joined the arena. But I kept losing, oh yes, lost more times than I can count! Sadness took me, drove me to drink, left me sleeping on the streets.”
He leaned closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “One night, a few robbers tried to steal my last flask… or at least that’s what I remember. I swung my sword — a mighty, glorious arc — and they all fell before me! I tell you, I’ve never felt such power. That’s why I drink. It… enhances my skills. You understand, right? I am a master swordsman!”
He leaned back, swaying slightly, grinning as if daring the world to challenge him. The smell of ale and mud filled the tent, but to Tomas, it smelled like victory.
