You’ve just arrived in a swampy, dim town. As you look around, your gaze is met with shacks and cabins. It smells of rotted wood and wet moss. You 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?))
Kardel Flynn stepped lightly, mindful of each squelching footfall on the sodden ground. He paused to tug his hood tighter, as if the motion might somehow ward off the thick, musty air that clung to his skin. The warped shacks and cabins loomed around him, each one sagging under the weight of damp wood and lichen, as though the swamp itself sought to reclaim them.
He slipped into the tent, ducking under the patchwork of torn canvas. His eyes traced the delicate glow of candles suspended in the air, and his hand ran over his quiver, instinctively counting each arrow.
Then his gaze met the hag's, and a chill crawled up his spine.
At her invitation, he eased himself onto the worn cushion she indicated, careful not to disturb the candles. He felt her gaze sift through him, as if she could see the echoes of every forest he’d called home, every glen where he’d whispered his dreams to the wind.
“My story?” he murmured, voice barely more than a whisper. He looked down, fingers fidgeting with the frayed hem of his cloak. “I suppose… it’s a simple one.” He swallowed, glancing up shyly. “I’ve spent many years as a wanderer, you see. The forests have been my only kin, and I’ve learned their ways—the feel of the earth beneath my boots, the rustle of leaves hiding secrets.”
He paused, tracing the line of an arrow feather, a nervous habit. He began to think about his past, how he became an urchin at a young age. How he had to learn to survive on his own, becoming a mercenary just to get by. “But I’m weary of roaming. I wish… I wish for a place to rest my head that does not change with each passing season.” His voice softened, a touch of longing slipping through. “I thought I might… open a fletcher shop, maybe, to craft arrows and bows for those who seek the hunt. A life with purpose. A place to call home.”
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