Lizabiz

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?)) Rorimac does as offered, and takes a set. Drawing a low breath, he start to think of what to say. "Born and raised in a sheltered shire, I learned the rhythms of seasons and soil early, tending rows of vegetables and the small orchard behind my family's farmhouse. I grew into a kindhearted, peaceful soul—one who enjoys a casual drink with neighbors and tells soft jokes by the hearth." Pausing for a small breath, clearing his mind to go into a more meaningful passage. "yet beneath my easy smile lives a quiet resolve to stand for those who cannot stand for themselves" Squinting his eyes, Rorimac holds himself and takes calming breaths. "When I became sixteen, a night of fire and blood took my parents and siblings; the farm smoldered and our small graveyard behind the linden tree became crowded with what should have been many more warm voices. I survived by a stubborn mixture of luck and instinct, waking among embers and dragging himself from ruins to find the land empty of kin and a family heirloom axe—its haft carved with his grandmother's initials—gone without a trace." Opening his eyes as his falling actions comes about. "Left as the last of the Devine line, I kept the farmhouse long enough to bury memory and learn to defend the helpless, trading my plow for the wary vigilance of a shepherd of strangers. I wander now, barefoot and steady, still tending when there is soil to till and still lifting a mug to toast simple pleasures, but always listening for rumors of that stolen axe and always ready to bare what skill he has to protect anyone in need." Recover from his living tragedy, Rorimac take a stand. "Thank you for this lovely conversation, it was pleasant finally speaking to another." As he then attempts to make a leave to the exit.

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?)) I do as offered, and take a sit. I take a low breath and start to think of what to say. "Born and raised in a sheltered shire, I learned the rhythms of seasons and soil early, tending rows of vegetables and the small orchard behind my family's farmhouse. I grew into a kindhearted, peaceful soul—one who enjoys a casual drink with neighbors and tells soft jokes by the hearth." I take a small breath as my mind starts to go into a more meaningful passage. "yet beneath my easy smile lives a quiet resolve to stand for those who cannot stand for themselves" Squinting my eyes, I hold myself and take calming breaths. "When I became sixteen, a night of fire and blood took my parents and siblings; the farm smoldered and our small graveyard behind the linden tree became crowded with what should have been many more warm voices. I survived by a stubborn mixture of luck and instinct, waking among embers and dragging himself from ruins to find the land empty of kin and a family heirloom axe—its haft carved with his grandmother's initials—gone without a trace." Opening my eyes as the falling actions comes about. "Left as the last of the Devine line, I kept the farmhouse long enough to bury memory and learn to defend the helpless, trading my plow for the wary vigilance of a shepherd of strangers. I wander now, barefoot and steady, still tending when there is soil to till and still lifting a mug to toast simple pleasures, but always listening for rumors of that stolen axe and always ready to bare what skill he has to protect anyone in need." As I recover my living tragedy, I take a stand. "Thank you for this lovely conversation, it was pleasant finally speaking to another." I attempt to make a leave to the exit.