elichapo

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?))
 

Mathias Caelan Branleigh steps into the wet tent very quietly, mud still adhered to boots on his feet. His keen eyes move quickly back and forth between candles hovering in air and beyond, where torches burn, casting shadows of figures - more of an outline than features, however. His hands pull back his coat, falling to rest near the hilt of his shortblade-more reflex than threat.

He does not just sit down.

"Expecting me?" he queries, his tone low, laced with suspicion and interest. "A first."

He stands still for an instant, and then advances, sinking down onto the cushion gingerly—back never to the door. He removes his gloves finger by finger, and rubs his hands together, casting a slanting glance at the whirring lights.

"My name is Mathias Caelan Branleigh," he tells the hag, his voice stubborn but tired. "A bookkeeper's son, a binder's son, who grew up amidst glue and ink but I left that behind."

Slumping back into the cushion, Mathias glances once about the lit tent, then catches the gaze of the old hag.

He leans forward, his tone calm but cautious.

"My parents were not nobles. Only common traders in an area nobody is proud to claim as theirs. Too honest for the kind of world we inhabit."

He snorts in derisive muttering.

"My older brother Lucien was the golden child—always. Firstborn, sharp, mouth closed and quiet like a dungeon door. A quick learner at the game. Acquired respectability without having to speak loudly."

Mathias slowly rubs his hands together.

"Me, I was louder. I was hungrier. I was outta the shop before I was grown. I self-taught myself how to fight, how to read, how to wield a knife in my hand. I've witnessed the truth in dingy alleys and the lies in honeyed lips. The world doesn't care about the cleanliness in your hand—it only considers how much you're prepared to lose."

His gaze locks hers.

"You said you'd waited for me. Maybe you have. Maybe it has to do with whatever has been pursuing me, or whatever I've been pursuing in turn. Either way, I'm not here on accident."