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.”
"Of course," Yosef sits down on the cushion offered by the hag, their eyes weary studying the shadows dancing throughout the poorly lit canopy. The stench of mildew and decay in the air begins to make him nauseous as Yosef begins his retelling of a life unforgiven to the decrepit woman across from him.
"I was born on the edge of Storheim, in a village once a considered peaceful," he announces with a voice heavy with regret. "I was a farm hand there, tending crops and helping my neighbors. But everything changed when bandits attacked. They razed our village, leaving nothing but ruins and taking everything, I held dear."
Yosefs hands began gripping his knees as he looks down at the glossy mahogany table attempting to hide his melancholy while recalling the troubles from his past. "I wandered, lost and without purpose, seeking a home and warmth. The past follows me, driving me through warring lands and peaceful territory alike. I now follow the weight of whoever's coin is heaviest, seeking meaning in a world that has taken so much."
Yosef lifts his head to meet the hags piercing gaze, filled with a mixture of pain and confusion. "Now you've heard from this wretch about his tale. What's yours?" he inquires expectantly, waiting as the candles around them begin to dim, wondering what wisdom or guidance this elderly soul might bestow this pitifully broken vagrant who sits across from her now.
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