DarkPolom

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.”

As he spoke, his voice cracked, torn between grief and fury, and the witch’s dimly lit tent seemed to close in on him. The shadows cast by the hovering candles danced across the tattered cloth walls like mocking spirits, each flicker a reminder of the lives already taken. He pressed his hand against the hilt of his sword, fingers trembling—not from fear, but from the weight of despair. His brothers’ faces burned behind his eyes, their laughter now nothing but ghosts echoing in this cursed place.

He staggered to his knees, his breath uneven, heavy with exhaustion. The smell of damp earth and smoke filled his lungs, choking him, pressing him deeper into his sorrow. “Do you hear them, witch?” he whispered, his voice nearly breaking. “Their screams linger in every shadow. Their blood stains every step I take. And still… still I walk this path alone.” His hand gripped the blade tighter, but his strength faltered. The steel felt heavier than iron, as though the burden of vengeance itself dragged it down.

He raised his eyes, wet with tears, glaring through the haze. “You stand before me now only because fate mocks me. Were my body not broken from the road, were my soul not already torn apart, I would end your wretched existence here, in this forsaken hovel.” His voice echoed, hoarse but laced with venom.

For a long moment, silence hung between the flickering candles, broken only by the faint hiss of wax dripping into the dust. He forced himself upright, every bone and muscle screaming in protest, and staggered toward the tent’s entrance. His hand lingered at the curtain, knuckles white as though he might yet turn and strike. But no—the time was not now.

He drew in a sharp breath, steadying himself. “Pray that I never find the strength to return,” he muttered, his voice cold as steel. “For when I do, all debts will be paid.”

Without another glance, he pushed through the torn fabric of the tent, stepping back into the night air thick with rot and swamp mist. The world outside was no less cruel, but at least it was free of her stifling presence. His boots sank into the damp soil as he left the glow of the witch’s candles behind, swallowed once more by the darkness of that wretched town.

And so he walked on, his grief and rage his only companions.