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?))
Brandor freezes mid-step, tension creeping into his shoulders as the hag calls him out. He slowly takes the cushion, gaze flicking between her and the wavering candlelight. "Oh, I just… didn’t expect a welcome," he says quietly. He smooths the front of his green vest as he sits down. "If you’ve been expecting me, then you know my journey hasn’t been easy..." he nods faintly toward her, "I was born in a small farming village tucked between vast fields and a river" he begins. "My parents were simple hardworking folk, strict when they needed to be, but kind in all the ways that mattered." He runs his thumb along the edge of his belt, reminiscing about the past. "Most days of my youth were spent hauling grain, mending fences, or driving off wolves that crept too close to our livestock." "But everything changed when a band of raiders swept through our village," he continues, voice growing quieter. "They came at dusk and by the time the flames died, my parents were gone, and the only thing left for me was the road." Brandor’s hand settles against his vest, steadying himself as he speaks. "I escaped with nothing but what I could carry, wandering from one settlement to the next until a group of adventurers found me half starved on the roadside." "They took pity on me and brought me with them, teaching me the sword alongside other adventuring basics, always saying a survivor’s strength ought to be sharpened, not wasted." "Since then, the road has been my teacher." He lifts his gaze to meet the hag’s once more...
