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?))
Example:
Donovan stood just inside the tent, dripping from the mist still clinging to his cloak. The candles flickered, casting soft, swaying shadows across his worn face. He hesitated a beat, then stepped forward, the weight of silence pressing at his shoulders as he lowered himself onto the cushion.
"...I don't know how to start."
His voice was hoarse—either from the long walk or from lack of use—and he looked down at his hands, calloused , burned, and cut, before continuing.
"There was a village. Small. Nothing worth naming on a map. We were just—farmers, really. With swords when we had to be. Elira was... she kept us all together when the rest of us forgot how."
He paused, jaw tightening slightly as he exhaled through his nose.
"The orcs came at night. No warning, no demands. Just fire, and screaming, and metal. I was the last to fall, and the only to crawl out of the wreckage. I buried what I could. What was left..."
He looked up at the hag, eyes dark and unreadable as he clutched the dulled silver ring in his hand.
"She was pregnant, you know... It was meant to be impossible but... She called it our little miracle..."
Fire overtook the sorrow welling up, and his voice lost its softness and grew cold
"I’ve got nothing left but questions. So if you really were expecting me... I hope you have more answers than I do."
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