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?))
You sit as instructed, and take a look around the tent at the floating candles. You take a slight whiff and smell a variety of local herbs with golden rod particularly standing out, and of course just the slightest hint of swamp magic. It smells just acrid enough that you decide you don't want to mess with it and find the fastest way out of here "That's quite kind of you to ask me, but I assure you there's not much to tell about me. Can't you tell that I'm just a no-body?"
"Do not play this game with me. I know it you I have been waiting for. Tell me what it is I might value from you?" You see that this old hag won't let you off too easily.
"You're the one who said you've been waiting for me. I tell you I'm not much. Yet an Andulian wandering about looking for a place that might be a true home for him. Yet another robbed of his inheritance by a new baby brother. I have my bow and my knife and these thoughts in my head. What could you want from that? But perhaps, you can help me? You seem ... skilled."
You wait, but she doesn't give you much. Just a raised eyebrow. The seconds drag on. You shift in your seat.
"Honestly what else do you want from me? A sob story about how it was hard growing up as a blacksmith's son? With an older brother of my own who was also poised to inheret before my mom popped me out? Would you like to hear about learning to hunt? Or rather being hunted? Or growing up with stories of the undead?"
"Hmpff. Yes you're the one after all. What a pity you're such a brat"
