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.”
Malndir steps into the tent, his eyes narrowing as they adjust to the dim, flickering candlelight. He regards the hag with a mix of curiosity and suspicion, his hand instinctively brushing the hilt of his sword as he lowers himself onto the cushion. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and something faintly metallic- like old blood. He allows the silence to stretch for a minute and look into the hag's eyes, and speaks:
"My story is not one of glory or triumph, but of survival. I am of the Mali'ker, raised in the shadows of the ancient caves of Magara'lin, where our ancestor's whispers still linger. My clan clung to tradition, to the teachings of Veluluai, and to the belief that unity was our only salvation. But unity has a price and i could not pay it. I questioned too much, strayed too far, and for that, I was outcasted. I have wandered the realms since, seeking purpose in a world that views my kind with fear and disdain. The surface is harsh, and the people harsher, but the blade is a great equalizer. I've earned my keep as a sellsword, and my skills have been tempered through the trials of exile. So tell me, what is it that you see? Why were you expecting me? And what role do you think i have to play in this wretched tale?"
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