You’ve just arrived in a swampy, dim town. As you look around, your gaze is met with shacks and cabins. It smells of rotted wood and wet moss. You 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?)) "..Oh? You've been expectin' me, aye?" Sullivan speaks with a bit of a drawl- the accent slipping past his lips akin to a sucker-punch as he plopped himself down with all the grace of a bull in a china shop. Squaring his arms and crossing his legs, he grins and wastes no time in blathering on the selfsame story he'd prattled on countless times along the many taverns he'd come across in his travels. "I am Sullivan Romanov, mercenary by trade and aspiring swordmaster. I travel the lands dealin' with whatever beast the more generous townfolk need dealt with at the time. Sharpening my blade ever further with the hide of the monsters roaming these lands serving as better a whetstone than any craftsman could pull out of their arse. I formerly hail from the city of Haelun'or, and 'ave decided that the prissy bastards' swordsmanship was devoid of anything worth retainin'." He growls, the manner in which his expression soured indicating that his departure may not have been as smooth as he made it sound. "Came across a band-o-dwarves in my travels and followed them along for the better part of three years. Say what you will about those alcoholic bastards, but those folk know better than most the true worth of a well-honed blade." The moment he mentioned the entourage he'd followed though, his expression softens. Revealing a more gentle smile- one more befitting what you'd expect from his race, rather than the cocky grin he sauntered on in with. "And it's through them that I've been inspired to hone this blade through bone and flesh, over ornamental techniques fit only fer useless theater plays." He grumbles, before pulling out his sword- the motion slow and telegraphed, as the blade remained pointed towards him. Showing off the clearly fine craftsmanship within- along with the unfaltering effort towards maintaining it. "And I've come here to hone it further still. So why don't you show me just how generous you and yours are, matron? Mayhaps I could deal with the thorn in yer side sooner than later, if you've any ale to offer that tastes of anythin' but piss." With that, he slides his blade back into its sheathe in another smooth motion, grinning from ear to ear at the old hag.
