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?))
He hesitates at the entrance, boots soaked in swamp muck, eyes flickering between the floating candles and the crone’s gaze. The cushion looks like it’s seen better centuries, but with little regard to its condition, he drops onto it with a sigh, brushing damp hair from his face.
“Well,” he starts, voice rough from travel, “I guess you could say I’m chasing ghosts. Not the spooky kind—more like the ones that wear my father’s face and vanish before dawn. My father came through my mother’s village chasing relics deep in the mountain, not for faith as he would lead you to believe, but for profit. He stayed just long enough to leave a name and a shadow. My mother, saw something in him that night, no one else did. She raised me with both eyes open, taught me to question everything. She taught me religion, but I mostly smiled and nodded, taking more liking to the notion of questioning everything.”
He pauses, gaze drifting to the candles.
“I’ve always wondered what I’d say if I met him. Not out of love. Not even hate. Just... curiosity. I am sure he’s probably out there somewhere, still chasing holy trinkets and leaving broken stories behind.”
A shrug.
The hag doesn’t blink.
“My mother raised me on stories. Some true, some... poetic. She believed in light, even when the world gave her shadows. Me? I learned to survive. Picked locks, dodged guards, played songs for coin and distraction. I’ve done things I’m not proud of, but they kept us fed.”
He leans forward, elbows on knees.
“I’ve got wanderlust in my bones and a curse in my blood. Can’t settle, can’t start a family... not really. So, I have decided to travel. I learn the hard way. I drink, I play, I charm, I run. And how fitting for me to end up in places like this as I begin my travels of the world.”
He smirks, half-hearted.
“So, yeah. That’s my story. Or at least the part I’m willing to tell before the ale kicks in.”
…
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