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.”
Thersek pauses at the tent’s entrance, one thick hand brushing damp canvas as if weighing the strength of it. The smell makes his nose wrinkle, but he steps inside all the same. Slowly, deliberately, he lowers his broad frame onto the cushion, leather creaking.
“Aye… figures,” he rumbles, voice like stone grinding stone. His dark eyes flick to the floating candles, then back to the hag. “Swamps aren’t known for hospitality, and folk who expect me usually want somethin’.”
He rests his hands on his knees, scarred fingers interlaced.
“I’m Thersek Mudrock. Son of no one you’d know.” A brief pause. “I came followin’ a trail—rumors of stone that shouldn’t be here, of voices under wet earth. Mountains don’t whisper, hag. So when they do… I listen.”
His gaze sharpens, steady and unblinking.
“If you’ve been waitin’ for me, then you already know the rest. So speak plain.”
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