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?))
Elijah hesitated. The flickering candlelight danced shadows across the tattered fabric of the tent. He shifted uncomfortably, brushing swamp mud from his brown trousers before lowering himself onto the offered cushion. His suspenders creaked faintly as he sat. The red cloth knotted around his neck felt suddenly tight. He loosened it a bit and exhaled.
“You’ve been expecting me?” he echoed softly, voice tinged with skepticism and the dust of the road.
He glanced around, noting the jars filled with unidentifiable things, bones, herbs, and murky liquid. He scratched the back of his tousled brown hair, then leaned forward just enough to show he wasn’t here to waste her time.
“My name’s Elijah Cartwell. I’m no mage, no knight, no chosen anything,” he said with a wry half-smile, though it didn’t quite reach his tired eyes. “Just a farmer. Born and raised in the southern hills, in a village so small you’d ride past it twice before realizing it’s there.”
He looked down at his hands—calloused, rough, honest.
“I had a patch of land, decent soil. Turned it myself. Grew onions, wheat, and cabbage that could feed a family through winter. Then the rains came. And kept coming.”
He looked up, tone flat but edged with old pain.
“Three seasons drowned. The crops rotted in the ground. Then bandits struck, thinking poor folk still had something to steal. Burned the barn. Took what little was left. My father… he didn’t make it.”
He swallowed hard, but didn’t look away.
“So I left. With just the shirt on my back, a satchel of seeds, and the boots he gave me. Been walking north ever since.”
He reached into his pocket and held up a small cloth pouch—faded and tied with twine.
“Still carry the seeds. Maybe it’s foolish. Maybe it’s hope.”
The candlelight flickered as if stirred by his honesty. He shifted again, glancing toward the hag, more curious now.
“But I don’t believe in fate. I believe in soil and rain. So why would you be expecting me?”
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