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?))
Cael steps inside, his boots sinking slightly into the damp ground. The smell of rot and moss presses against him, dulled only slightly by the black cloth covering his mouth and nose. His black eyes, cold yet alert, scan the dim tent as he lowers himself onto the offered cushion - slow, deliberate, never taking his gaze off the figure before him.
When he speaks, his voice is deep, resonant, carrying an edge of weariness beneath its calm surface:
"...Story?"
He lets the word linger in the air for a moment, heavy and unimpressed.
"My story’s not one meant for candlelight and whispered tents."
His hands rest lightly on his knees, fingers relaxed but ready. His posture is composed, but every muscle beneath his combat shirt holds quiet tension - not fear, but readiness.
"I was raised where names were forgotten faster than they were given. Learned early that steel listens better than people do."
He pauses, the flicker of candlelight briefly catching the sharp line of his elven features, the pallor of his skin.
"I didn't come here to look back," Cael says, voice steady, low. "The past doesn't need retelling. It's already done enough damage."
His black eyes narrow slightly, studying the figure before him not with suspicion, but with the cold, practiced caution of someone who has survived far too much to ever lower his guard easily.
"You said you were expecting me. Then say what needs to be said."
A subtle shift - almost too small to catch - tightens his voice at the edges.
"Before the swamp swallows us both."
Backstory:
Cael is a 21-year-old elf. His parents died in a tragic accident when he was very young, leaving him to grow up as an orphan. Throughout his childhood, he had few — if any — friends, and by the age of twelve, he had already found himself drawn into the life of a soldier. Unlike many orphans, Cael was never "adopted" from the orphanage, and so survival became something he had to fight for daily.
He is a quiet, often sarcastic individual, preferring to approach conflict with calmness and cleverness rather than brute force. Life at the orphanage taught him how to claim what he needed in order to survive, and later, the battlefield sharpened his skills with the sword until he became a warrior feared even among seasoned soldiers.
At eighteen, Cael laid his sword aside. He no longer sought bloodshed — instead, he yearned for a peaceful life, living alone in a small hut, far from the noise of the world. He dreamed of peace among people and other races alike. Despite his efforts to live quietly, he remains cautious and alert, a trait he makes no attempt to hide. His skepticism is one of the first things people notice about him.
Cael rarely speaks about his past; he believes it belongs to the past and sees no need to burden others with it. He covers his nose and mouth with a cloth, not out of vanity, but because he is highly sensitive to smells. To Cael, a being's scent reveals much — but he prefers not to judge others before he has truly met them.
Though he can come across as distant or intimidating, Cael is deeply loyal to the few he calls friends. His voice is deep and clear — a tone that some find strangely attractive, while others find it unsettling. Once, his eyes shone a vibrant violet, but after years of hardship in the orphanage and on the battlefield, their color faded into a stark, unsettling black. His gaze, often cold and watchful, reflects a man who has learned to read his surroundings with unrelenting precision.
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