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?))
He hesitates for only a moment before sitting down.
“My father was a farmer,” he begins, his voice steady but distant, “though he had once been a swordsman. I never really knew my mother. I worked hard every day in those fields, helping him however I could."
“When I was thirteen, I picked up a sword for the first time. It felt like a calling the way it fit in my hand, the balance of it, the way it seemed to come alive when I held it. Everything about it spoke to me.” His fingers twitch slightly, as if remembering the weight of the hilt. “I trained with that blade by myself, though I never fought in real combat."
“When I was sixteen, my father grew sick and left the farm to me. I didn’t want it.", His eyes grow dimmer slightly and looks down, "Maybe that was selfish, but my heart was never in the fields. So I left it all behind to search for something. What that something is, I don’t yet know. But I’m certain I’ll find it soon.”
He lifts his gaze to meet hers, a quiet resolve settling over his features.
“That’s why I’m here.”
