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?))
Jeybar would squint as he entered the cabin. A hand on his trusty pickaxe, nicknamed "Payment Day", Jeybar would cautiously move to sit on the cushion. He'd look the woman up and down, huffing for a moment. He would pull his hat down slightly to keep his eyes covered as he began to speak "Been travelin' ma whole life, goin from place to place in search of somethin' more." His voice was weathered, and low, but he spoke with a certain determination.
He'd sigh as he'd look around the room, questioning why some old woman would care about his life. Seeing the candles float, Jeybar would roll his eyes as his gaze returned to the woman. "Grew up in the mountains of Urguan, but we didn't stay. Ma parents didn't believe in tha politics, or whatevar bullshittery was happenin'. So we travelled around once they 'bandoned their clan. Can't even remember the name. Somethin' with Ir'n."
Jeybar would look around again, always struggling to maintain eye contact for too long. He'd stretch slightly in his seat as he continued. "Ma Dad taught me about minin' and how to carefully extract precious minerals. Ma Muther would teach me 'ow to navigate tha world through music." With that, he'd pull out a small flute carved from cedar wood. "A partin' gift when I went out on ma own to build a name for m'self." As Jeybar looked at the flute, the strange woman would be able to see the first and only glimpse of warmth in his expression. While his coldness quickly returned, Jeybar seemed to retain some since of affection for his mother, despite his apparent distaste for the world.
Jeybar would sigh, straining as he stood. His hand still rested on his pickaxe as he looked to the woman once more “Ah ‘spose I shouldn’t overstay ma welcome.” He’d dip his head, before moving to step out of the shack, and continue on through the swampy wasteland.
