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.”
"Floating candles? Most intriguing," Oryllex says, easing his lengthy body onto the cushion beside a stack of books bound in worn leather, their titles dark with age.
"I'm a traveler- by necessity, not choice." He glances at the arcane volumes again.
"I was a stonemason once. The only one around trusted to shape stone for walls that bore sigils I could not carve myself. Protection runes set by others long before my time. There was no one left to teach the craft where I come from." His voice carries a calm, almost mournful reminiscence.
Oryllex looks down at his scarred hands, the calluses telling stories of monuments he left behind.
"Hard work only got me so far," he mutters, gaze fixed on the marks. "Stone remembers shape, not meaning. If these symbols are more than craft, I must understand them. I must study, research, and teach this craft."
Determination hardens his features as he rests a hand on the pile of books and fists his other hand to his chest, locking eyes with the hag.
"I’ve seen these books before. Deity magic, right?" A sly smile, almost feral, tugs at his lips as if a daemon has taken hold for a moment. "It’s not coincidence we’ve met. Now, why have you brought me here?"
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