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?))
Vuk lets out a slow breath through his nose, like a bull deciding whether to charge or not. His eyes drift from the hag’s face to the candles, hovering like nervous little stars.
“…Don’t make a habit of asking men where they come from,” he mutters. “Usually ends with someone bleeding.”
A pause. Long. Heavy.
“My parents were born in the Kingdom of Haense,” he says at last, like he’s spitting out a bad taste. “Thought that mattered once. Thought banners and songs meant something.”
He shifts on the cushion, leather creaking.
“Second Coalition War came along and proved they didn’t. Since then, I work. For coin. For food. For causes that don’t lie too loudly. That’s why I’m here. Empire of Man always needs strong arms and weaker consciences.”
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