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?))
A cautious look of hesitation creeps across Ivis' face, this was a strange sight even for him. The damp, thick air inside the tent weighing down his lungs as he sat. His fingers tense ever so briefly in his lap, "The name's Ivus, Ivis Randulf," he says after a small moment. "Human born to the west, far from swamps like this. My family come from a lineage of charcoal burners and trappers, impoverished work but honest enough for people like us." His eyes shift from the hag, to the candles then back to the hag once more. "From a young age I learned how to survive in this cold, cruel world. How to keep moving forward when there's nothing left behind that's worth turning back for. My father was taken by bandits, they took him on the road. Fever claimed my mother as its victim not long after. After both of my old folks died, there wasn't much tying me down to one place or another." He slowly exhales, his eyes flickering with the slow flame of ambition matching the candles hue perfectly. "I've worked many jobs, a Sellsword, a Courier, even a guard when money was tight. Never stayed at one place for long. Places have a nasty habit of souring when you loiter for too long." A faint but noticeable smile sprawls across his face. "But who knows, maybe it's just me." There is a small but impactful pause before he continues, growing evermore quiet. "I've heard things about this town. About you. Strange things, things I'm not entirely sure I like. Some towns-folk say you know stories before they are told, and faces before they arrive. I don't know if I believe it. Never was one to believe in the supernatural." His gaze begins to harden slightly. "But I've learned not to ignore rumors that linger. That won't leave me be" He leans back on the cushion, meeting the old hags gaze. "So that's more or less my story. A man who's been around and lost enough to recognize when he's being pulled somewhere for a reason. "If you're expecting me..." he adds. "I think it's about time I discover why..."
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