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?))
John Scott would take a seat on the cushion as he eyed the crone with suspicion. "Well i come from a place far far away, A land filled with brave knights and a mighty king. Where a mans skill with a blade determines his wealth." He replied to the old hag as he scanned her features, and then the room he was sat in. John rubbed his hand through his hair in distress, and then rested the palm of his hand upon the pommel of his blade. "It was a long journey coming here, and I'm glad I've made it." - "Now lady, would you mind telling me what you're doing in a filthy place like this." He'd question, that same hand that rested upon his pommel tensing up, a tight grip upon it's wooden build.
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