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 the nearest structure, 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.”
The air hangs thick, like a page gone damp and curling at the edges. Hremal ducks beneath the torn flap of the tent, his cloak dragging mud in with him. He pulls the oilcloth tighter around a satchel hanging from his side, guarding its contents like sacred flame. The moment he enters, the scent changes from swamp rot to smoke and wax. Candles float in the air. He narrows his eyes at them. Not distrustful, merely curious.
Then, the voice:
“What brings you to this dingy town?”
The old woman peers through strands of hair like spiderwebs. Her eyes shine like ink under candlelight.
“Ah, it’s you. I’ve been expecting you. Sit.”
He does. Carefully.
“Tell me your story,” she says.
Hremal places the satchel at his feet with reverence. Unbuckles it. Withdraws a single leather-bound book, fastened shut with a runic seal. He doesn’t hand it over. Not yet.
“A’right, then. I’ll speak it aloud. Words always shift in the retellin’, and I’d like this one t’ wander for a while 'afore it finds a spine.”
He leans forward, and his voice softens.
“I was born beneath the stone, as most of my kin are, though I ne’er took to hammers or axes. No, my fingers found parchment faster than they found steel.”
“They said I was too soft—too ‘bookish’ to last in a world crackin’ open from the inside. So I left it. Walked roads I couldn’t name. Watched kingdoms rise and choke on their own banners. Learned the names of rivers and the last words of dying kings.”
He nods toward the candles.
“I’ve seen stranger lights than those, aye. Spoken to things that don’t leave footprints. And still I write. I write because stories outlast swords. I write because ink carves deeper than iron. And I’m not done yet.”
A pause. He places the sealed book on the table between them.
“This one’s not mine. Not entirely. It’s empty, save for the first line. ‘The world blinked, and forgot its name.’ Thought I’d come here, to this... stinkhole, and see what it remembers.”
The hag smiles, but doesn’t touch the book.
“Aye,” Hremal says, leaning back, “I reckon you know how the rest will go. Mayhaps you’ve read it already.”
A faint spark dances behind his eyes—not magic, not yet—but something stranger. Intent.
“But you asked for a story. So here's mine: I'm just a dwarf with more questions than answers. And if the world has secrets still unwritten... I’ll find ‘em. Even if I have to bleed the truth from ghosts and shadows meself.”
He lifts the book, presses it back into his satchel.
“Now. Do you happen t’ know where a fellow might find a good lie around here? I’ve a few pages that need fillin’.”
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