_Etriox_

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.”

((How do you respond?))

 

“Me? I am a simple traveler on a dark path…” Kermerros answers with a mixture of mockery and refinement, calmly brushing the dust off his tattered clothes before sitting down on the cushion the old woman had indicated. “I am Kermerros Entrati… but I imagine you already know that, since you were waiting for me, right?” he adds, with a crooked smile and a tone tinged with subtle irony.

The old woman remains silent for a moment, her sunken eyes studying him intently, as if she could peer into his soul. For a brief moment, the only sounds are the flickering of candle flames and the distant croaking of swamp frogs.

“I am just passing through, looking for my brother… Vilcor…” he says finally, letting the name linger in the air. The witch nods slowly, as if the name carried a familiar weight.

Kermerros exhales deeply, the smell of melted wax and damp earth filling his nostrils as his gaze shifts across the chaotic city. It is a place filled with vials of murky liquids, dried herbs hanging from the rafters, and the skulls of creatures best left unidentified.

“Vilcor and I have walked many paths, old woman. Winding paths through rugged mountains, sweltering roads under relentless suns, and swamps where death lurks beneath stagnant water. Our boots have trodden lands spoken of only in hushed tones, and our names are written in records no king would dare read aloud. But… it was not always this way.”

He leans back slightly, elbows resting on his knees, fingers gently tapping the hilt of the dagger he carries at his side.

“We were born in a humble settlement on the edge of a canyon. Our parents weren’t nobles or legendary heroes. My father was a blacksmith, a craftsman who could turn a humble piece of metal into a blade that hummed as it cut through the air. My mother… she was a healer. A woman of gentle yet firm hands, able to pull the dying from the clutches of death with nothing but herbs and sheer willpower.”

Her eyes meet the old woman’s as she continues.

“We grew up among the sparks of the forge and the smell of healing salves. I learned the art of shaping steel, understanding its secrets and bending it to my will. But Vilcor… he had a way with herbs and bandages. It was as if the plants themselves whispered their secrets to him. And for a time, we had peace. For a time, life was… simple.”

She pauses, her voice lowering, growing heavier.

“But peace is fleeting, isn’t it?” One day, the flames he loved so much consumed more than just the metal in my father’s workshop. They consumed homes, they consumed lives… they consumed everything.

Silence fills the room. The memory of that night is burned into his mind, clear as ever.

“So we left. We became wanderers, travelers on paths others dared not tread. At first, we were just two boys, more determination than skill. Me with my hammer and battered swords, Vilcor with his hastily sewn ointments and bandages. But in time… we learned. We learned that the world shows no mercy to those who do not fight for it. We became mercenaries, wandering craftsmen, makeshift healers. We moved from town to town, repairing broken swords, curing fevers, or fighting alongside desperate militias against the horrors that emerge from the darkness.

She looks at one of the floating candles, its flame flickering in response to her words.

“But a few weeks ago… Vilcor and I parted ways. Not by choice, but by circumstance. A job gone wrong, as it often does when the desperate are hired by the foolish. He took one path, I took another, with the promise of meeting again at an ancient shrine across the swamp. But it’s been days… too many days.”

Kermerros straightens, his voice now firmer, more intense.

“And now I am here, old woman. Walking a shadowy path in a swamp that seems to consume the time and souls of those foolish enough to cross it. You said you were waiting for me. So tell me…” He leans forward, his crimson eyes meeting hers. “Do you know anything about my brother? Or is this meeting simply another twist of fate?”

She falls silent, the stillness between them thickening, broken only by the crackle of candles and the distant murmur of the swamp. The old woman smiles, though it is far from comforting. Something in her eyes tells him that the answers he seeks may not be the ones he wants to hear.