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.”
Kaelen steps into the tent, boots heavy against the damp earth, his presence filling the space. The flickering candlelight dances off his features, casting shadows across his jet-black hair and red eyes, which never leave the hag. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t soften. His posture is rigid, always ready to move.
"I don’t tell stories," he growls, his voice a gravelly whisper. "But I’ve walked long enough to know when things aren’t a coincidence."
He pauses, scanning the tent like it might conceal something more than it shows. "I was born in the Thuaid Mountains, raised in a kingdom that fell to dust long before I knew what loyalty was. The Adunians... we were warriors. Mercenaries. But in the end, we were all betrayed—my clan, my family, the ones I fought beside."
His lips curl in something akin to a sneer. "They didn’t think I’d survive. But I did. And when the dust settled, I learned the truth. No one is worth trusting. Everyone has their own agenda."
Kaelen shifts his weight, his hand briefly brushing the dagger at his hip, a constant companion. "I’ve spent years wandering. No home. No real allies. Just survival. Taking what I need to keep breathing another day. If you’ve been expecting me, you already know that. I’m not here for stories or comfort. I’m here to get what I need and disappear."
He meets her gaze, cold and unyielding. "And I won’t leave until I get it."
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