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?))
Gaffgarion chuckles to himself, he had wondered if something monstrous was beyond the veil of the flaps. His boots track in the mud of the swamp, they are caked in a dark black mud. "May I?" He chortled lifting his feet in playful show. The old crone titters as she motions him to sit. Gaffgarion proceeds to remove his boots behind the small seat, he unbuckles his band a places his sword angled against the table. "Most heartlanders do not recognize me, nor expect me. I am just a wanderer making his way through Norland." He wraps his arms around his cloak to pull out an animal bladder. Unscrewing its rubber cork and poring a dark red liquid into a cup placed on the table. "Red Tea, from my homeland." He gestures the crone, offering a drink. "If you must know I am a scholar-gone-bad, once obsessed with the far past, half-understood texts, histories whispered but never understood." The crone looks perplexed. Gaffgarion removes his gloves revealing his hands, contorted and mangled a red singed mark scarred horizontally on his palms. "I was a gifted historian who acted foolishly, I thought I was smarter than those who have experienced more than a hundred lifetimes. Ego, you could call it." He proceeds to stretch the leather gloves affixing them over his hands once again. "I thought myself a visionary, ahead of my time, I learned too late that some knowledge carries a cost. Now I walk a mercenary, seeking those who wronged me, so I my write again, hold my quill with vigor and finish what I started." He looks towards the crone, this time studiedly, he is unable to hide his intentions as his face warps with curiosity, his brows wiggle and eyes dart around the room. He smirks seemingly satisfied with his judgement. "I am Gyru Gaffgarion, I hail from a land of historians and I am looking for someone who hails from my hometown, and I was told they came through here, but I seem to be late." He arises finishing the rest of his tea in a single swig. "I appreciate your company fair lady, but this scholar-gone-bad has many places to be, and important people to meet. Shaza!"
