happifinn

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?))

He hesitated at the entrance, his eyes narrowing as the flickering candlelight traced strange shadows across the tent’s tattered fabric. The air inside was thick with the scent of wax, moss, and something old—something decaying. He stepped forward slowly, boots barely making a sound on the damp ground, gaze fixed on the old woman who regarded him with unnerving familiarity.

Ker'turr said nothing at first. His expression remained unreadable, save for a subtle twitch in the corner of his mouth; discomfort, or perhaps recognition. He hadn’t expected to.

He lowered himself onto the cushion with deliberate caution, as though unsure whether the moment was real or just another fevered vision conjured by too many sleepless nights and too much ink seeping into his skin. A long breath escaped him, more like a sigh than a greeting.

“My story,” he echoed, voice low and dry like brittle paper. “It’s not so much a tale as it is a collection of unanswered questions. I’ve gone where my people told me not to go, learned what they said I shouldn’t know... and now I’m here, though I couldn’t tell you why. Not yet.”

He met her eyes at last, his own heavy with weariness and curiosity.