Crimsarion has just arrived in a swampy, dim town. As he look around, his gaze is met with shacks and cabins. It smells of rotted wood and wet moss. He 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 his face—”Ah, it’s you. I’ve been expecting you. Sit,” she gestures at a cushion, “Tell me your story.”
Crimsarion straightened the collar of his linen shirt. He didn't rush to sit - instead, he lingered by the entrance, his crimson eyes flicking toward the candles. The smell of the swamp offended his senses, but his face remained a mask of bored indifference. He stepped forward, his boots silent on the ground, and sank onto the cushion with a grace that felt too polished for such a dingy setting. "Vrax, old mother," Crimsarion began, his voice smooth. "I hope you weren't expecting a savior or a saint. You'll find the former too expensive and the latter... quite the opposite." He paused, glancing at his fingernails before returning his sharp, red gaze to hers.
"I am Crimsarion of the House Khenesis - though 'House' is a grand word for a name that currently owns not even memories, but ahes. I tired of the suffocating depths and the petty cruelties of my kin, only to find the surface world smells of wet moss and is governed by men who think a crown makes their blood less watery." He offered a thin, cynical half-smile. "I'm just a lonely wanderer now, tending to my own affairs and trying to gain everything I can. I am here because the path I walk is not the easy one, and even a glorious Maehr like myself needs certain... guidance."
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