121lb
Light blond-brown hair, long
blue eyes
Mainly wears a white puffy blouse with black boots and a black corset, also owns travel leathers
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.”
Vireiana glances at her, lowering herself carefully into the seat as requested, as though any sudden movement might shatter the fragile space between them. For a moment, words fail her. They sit heavy in her chest, tangled and uncooperative, but slowly—reluctantly—she begins to find the vocabulary she had been searching for.
“Well… when I was a child, my village was burned.” Her voice is quieter than she intends, steadier than she feels. “Horrendously. Without much of a reason.” The memory presses at the edges of her mind, heat and ash threatening to surface, and she has to still the restless fidgeting of her fingers, forcing her sweaty palms flat against her bouncing legs.
“I’ve sort of survived on my own since,” she continues after a brief pause, her gaze unfocused, somewhere far beyond the room. Then it drifts back, catching faintly on the woman’s grey hair, as if anchoring herself to something real, something present.
“I mean… I help people. It’s something I’ve always done.” Her shoulders lift in the smallest, uncertain shrug. “I am kind. I try to be, at least. I forgive more than I probably should, and I always lend a hand when I can…” Her voice softens at the edges, doubt threading through it. “If that makes anything better.”
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