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?))
Kililua's gaze flickered to the older woman, then to the dimly lit tent around her. Shadows danced along the fabric walls, swaying with the flickering lantern light. The ache in her body was relentless—deep, dragging, a reminder of how far she'd run. Her breaths came in short, uneven gasps, each one edged with the ghost of a sob she refused to release. The only color left in her pale face was the crimson smeared across her cheeks—her father’s blood, still warm when it had splattered there. She should not trust. She could not trust. Yet, against all reason, she felt something close to safety in this place. Or maybe that's what she wants to believe
Her legs carried her forward of their own accord, sinking into the offered seat. Loose strands of hair fell forward, veiling one of her eyes like a curtain against the world. The older woman sighed, the sound neither soft nor sharp, but knowing. She reached into her pocket, drawing out a worn rag. As she inched closer, Kililua flinched—just a flicker of movement, but enough. The woman didn’t pause, nor did she retreat. Instead, her gaze softened, unreadable in the dim glow, and she placed the rag upon the girl’s lap before settling into a weathered oak chair across from her.
"Oh, look at you," she murmured, the words barely more than breath. "Poor thing. You've had a long night, haven't you?" The chair creaked beneath her as she leaned back, hands folding in her lap. "Well… take what little comfort you can. You’re safe here."
Safe.
The word should have soothed her, but the weight of it pressed against her twisting her spirit.
"Go on now," the woman continued, her voice firm. "Clean your face. I’m waiting for your story, little one."
Kililua stared at the rag, hesitant. Her fingers twitched before curling around the fabric, gripping it tightly enough to stretch its worn fibers. Her voice, when it came, was barely a whisper.
"I don’t know what it is you wish for me to tell…"
The woman exhaled, slow and slightly frustrated . And when she spoke again, her tone had changed.
"Oh, but you do."
The air shifted.
Something cold slithered through the space between them, unseen but heavy, curling at the edges of Kililua’s mind. A chill pressed against her skin, seeping into her bones. She knew this feeling.
It was the same as before.
" Young child. Tell me your story, what is it that brought such a tragic thing like you to me,"
Kililua sat there her mind drawing back to what happened tonight.
Kililua swallowed hard, gripping the rag in her lap. Her fingers trembled. The memory was still fresh, burning behind her eyes, She sucked in a breath, then spoke.
“We were running..." Her voice was hoarse, cracked from the cold, from the screaming. “The mountain… the snow was thick, heavy. It slowed us down. The wind was screaming, but it wasn’t loud enough to drown them out.” Her hands clenched. She could still hear it—those awful, unnatural shrieks slicing through the sky.
“They were right behind us.”
----
Her father’s grip had been tight around her wrist, his hand shaking but strong. His breath had been ragged, pained, but he never let go. “We had to make it to the town. That’s what he kept saying. ‘Just a little further, Kililua. Keep moving.’” She blinked rapidly, her vision blurring. The heat of his blood had stained the snow leaving a trail for their attackers to follow close behind.
“He was hurt. I knew he was hurt, but he wouldn’t stop. He wouldn’t let me stop.”
The older woman said nothing. Just watched. Listened.
Kililua’s nails dug into the rag. “We were so close.”
“It was there. One of them.”
A single monster had blocked their path, its twisted form shifting in the snow, its hollow eyes locked onto them. And then more. So many more.
Her father had gone still. Just for a second. Then he turned to her, dropping to one knee. “Listen to me,” he had said, voice warm despite his exhaustion. He had reached into his coat, pulling something from his pocket. A brooch.
A blue flower. A deep purple ribbon.
Her mother’s.
He had pressed it into her hand, fingers curling hers around it. “Keep this close. Don’t lose it.”
“Papa, what—”
“When I say run, you run. Do you hear me?”
Her heart had been pounding so hard she thought it would break through.
“But—”
“DO YOU HEAR ME?”
She had nodded. Tears stung her eyes. The monsters had closed in. Her father had stood, bracing himself. Then—
“NOW!”
He had shoved her forward. The snow hitting her knees as she stumbled to get past. She had barely taken three steps before she heard it—
RIP ! (could not think of a word for like...a flesh tearing sound :'))
The sound of flesh tearing.
Her feet had stopped. She had turned. His blood had splattered hot on her face. Her face paled and her eyes grew wide, her legs trembled as she fell to the ground. Allowing her voice to yell,
“PAPA!!”
Her scream had shattered the sky. But he had already fallen. And the monsters—they didn’t stop. She had wanted to run to him. To fight. To—to do something. But his voice—his last command—had been louder than her fear. She had turned. And she had run. Through the snow. Through the pain. Through the sound of monsters ripping him apart. She had run until her legs gave out. Until her body collapsed. Until she landed here. In front of this tent. In front of this woman.
---
Kililua blinked, eyes unfocused, staring past the candlelight. Her fingers loosened around the rag, trembling. The rag was colored in smeared red blood- she doesn't even remember how or when she wiped her face.
“And now… I’m here.”
The tent was silent. The woman exhaled slowly. Measured. Cold. “What a cruel, cruel world.”
Kililua squeezed her eyes shut. She didn’t need to be told that. She already knew.
"So, what’s next, dear? What will you do with this extra life you were so sinfully given?"
Kililua’s breath hitched. Her fingers curled into fists, dropping the bloodied rag as she lifted her head. Tears slipped down her face, but there was no sorrow left in her eyes. Only something hollow. Something dark.
The old woman watched her, a slow, knowing smile stretching across her weathered face. Kililua’s gaze flicked to the iron sword resting beside her. Her fingers twitched. Her voice was steady. Cold.
"I survive."
She reached into her skirt pocket, fingers brushing against the familiar metal before pulling out the brooch. With careful hands, she clipped it to the hood of her cloak, the pastel blue flower catching the dim light. It rested there. The color suited her, just as it had suited her mother. She had her face, her hair, the same quiet strength hidden beneath weary eyes.
And now, she would carry their legacy.
For her mother.
For her father.
For the honor she refused to let die.
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