Your character has just arrived in a swampy, dim town. As they look around, their gaze is met with shacks and cabins. It smells of rotted wood and wet moss. They 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.”
Xandyr pauses in the threshold, golden eyes narrowing beneath sleep-heavy lids. The scent of moss and mildew curls around him like a warning. Still, he steps forward, drawing his damp cloak tighter across his chest. His voice is soft but precise, each word measured like a prayer.
“I have walked far, seeking echoes of Order in a world that has forgotten the word.”
He does not sit. Not yet. Instead, he studies the hag with the same cautious scrutiny he gives to forbidden tomes. There is no fear in him—only fatigue, and a quiet resolve born of ritual and ruin.
“You say you expected me. Then you know this story is not mine alone. It belongs to Him. To Xan. And it begins, as most true stories do… with doubt.”
He finally lowers himself onto the cushion, robes whispering over the damp floor, and rests his hand on the tome at his belt as though to steady himself.
“I am here to gather what was scattered—to restore forgotten truths, and to become their keeper.”
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