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.”
Rowan does not sit immediately.
The swamp air clings to his cloak as he steps fully into the tent, one gloved hand resting loosely near his belt, not on his blade, but close enough to reach it if needed. His grey eyes glance once at the floating candles before settling on the old woman.
He lowers his hood.
"I doubt that," he says evenly, his voice rough from travel. "I have made it a habit not to be expected."
After a moment, he steps forward and lowers himself onto the cushion, slow and controlled, never breaking eye contact.
"If you were truly waiting for me, then you already know this town was not my destination."
His gaze shifts briefly toward the tent entrance, listening to the distant sounds of the swamp.
"I follow smoke," he says at last. "Rumours of ash falling where it should not. Crops dying. Livestock born wrong. Men vanishing along the marsh roads."
His jaw tightens slightly.
"And every trail ends here."
Rowan leans back just enough to show he is not intimidated, but not careless either.
"So," he finishes quietly, his eyes steady on hers, "if you have been expecting me, tell me why."
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