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 don't want to know my story," you quickly say coldly, but it's too late. That simple question awakened something within you: a feeling of anger, sadness, and satisfaction. You lived in the great human capital, but not in a rich and ostentatious neighborhood. You lived in a working-class neighborhood where filth and decay were commonplace. You were a child with a great fondness for creating poisons and other deadly things, so your neighbors considered you a danger. One day, like any other, a group of drunks set fire to your house with you and your parents inside. You managed to escape, but your parents weren't so lucky; they died in the fire. Justice never came for those despicable people, so you decided to take justice into your own hands. Using a knife with your own poison, you murdered them, and for that, you were thrown out of your neighborhood, your city, your life. In the present, you try to become a skilled assassin and poison maker.
