You’ve just arrived in a swampy, dim town. As you look around, your gaze is met with shacks and cabins. It smells of rotted wood and wet moss. You 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.”
Landor stumbles his way through the tents entrance, an odd sensation gnawing in his mind. A drop of sweat crawls down his brow as he meets the gaze of the old crone. If the rambling drunkards outside are to be believed, this old lady is anything but decrepit.
"I am Landor Hardyng, a knight of Haense." he says, boldly and proudly. The old crone merely sits there, continuing to stare him in the eyes. Landor notices her gaze shift to his makeshift clothing.
"You were a knight of Haense. But no longer." she replies, reaching for a teapot and two cups. Landor's face turns red. He walks towards her, balling his hand into a fist. Towering over her, he places his hand on the crones shoulder. She looks up at him.
"I am Landor Hardyng still, hag. You will do well to remember that." he says, gritting his teeth hard enough to shatter them.
"It matters not," she says, forcing a cup of tea into his hand. "Sit."
He sits in the empty chair next to hers, looking down at his cup as he swirls it around. The maelstrom of hot leaf juice spills onto his pant leg, causing Landor to frown and angrily jitter in the chair. "Damn." he says, narrowing his gaze.
Escalating, he spills the rest on himself. Landor darts to his feet, sending the chair to the ground and throwing the cup so far it lands outside the tent. He clenches his jaw, a vein popping on out on his forehead. As he looks down at his stained clothes, he slowly raises his head back to the crone, glaring at her with enough wroth to strike her down.
She looks over to the discarded cup on the floor, her face filling with a subtle sadness. Her face turns to Landor, slighting him with a look of shame and disgust.
Landor begins to hyperventilate, each breath rougher than the last. "That look", he thinks. "Why is it everyone shares that look?". As frustration washes over him like the waves against the harbours jetty back home, he closes his eyes and inhales through his nose.
"WHO ARE YOU TO JUDGE ME?!", he roars, shaking the very walls of the tent. His voice is tense and harsh, a cold squeal sneaking in halfway.
The old crone stares at him, her eyes so watery and clear that Landor questions if she can even see. But she can, just as everyone else sees him. And in the reflection of those milky white peepers of hers, he sees it too. A shadow of who he once was. A warrior turned sour, no better than a highborn brat.
His heart skips a beat, or two or twenty. His jaw swings open and any strength he had left in him had vanished. Landor's knees weaken and wobble, falling before the old crone. Her frail and aged body had a more solid foundation than his did. He'd been raised up from the slums, given the chance at a better life of honor and glory, and what did he do? Took bribes, hurt the innocent and forsook every vow he took. Only when his new life of privilege and power had been taken away did he finally see the ugliness beneath. He's pathetic, and he knows it.
A cold stream of tears stings the red on his face. Then suddenly, that gnawing sensation, the foreboding thought in his head stopped. He feels lighter and slowly raises his gaze to meet hers, who's once melancholic face disturbed him has turned happy and whole. He's confused, but welcomes it.
"What am I to do, now?, he asks, "Who am I to be?"
Her lips curled backwards, offering him a soft and gentle smile. She opens her mouth, uttering the words with hope.
"A true knight."
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