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?))
Upon entering the tent and glancing at the hag, he lowers his hood. He moves without urgency, kneeling before the cushion but not yet sitting, his eyes fixed on the woman in front of him with a calm fixation that borders on unsettling.
"I don't often speak it aloud," he says, voice low and monotone. "But since you were expecting me..."
He lowers himself onto the cushion with the slow caution of someone who hasn't rested in days.
"My story, you said?" he asks with a thoughtful tone. "I don't know if it's worth telling."
He pauses, then begins anyway.
"I came up from the coast, out of a small town where the only building of any real value was a chapel. A few towns back, I stopped asking for names. Everyone lies, or forgets. Maybe I do too," he rambles away, sometimes a tad incoherently.
"But there is one name I keep hearing.. not out there." He gestures vaguely past the tent walls.
"In my dreams. Soft as a whisper, every night. Always the same name."
He stops to rub at his temple.
"I don't know what this name means to me. If I'm meant to find them, warn them.. or something else. My deity isn't the kind that grants us answers. Only whispers."
He glances up at the floating candles and lets out a silent sigh before he sets his gaze back at the hag.
"I followed the dream here. That's all I've got. So if you know more than I do.. then it is time to tell me your story."
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