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.”
Musafir scans the tent before stepping further inside, the candles flickering with the sudden influx of wind. The hag motions for him to sit, which Musafir quietly does. ''My story.. huh'' he murmurs. ''Very well.''
''I grew up in a small Farfolk village by the river. Nothing remarkable. My parents were to busy trying to make ends meet, as such we never really developed a real relationship. Not that i blame them, they were simple people living a difficult life...'' Musafir trails off at the end, eyes clouding over before focusing again.
''The only person who ever spoke to me with real kindness was an old fisherman and healer, Maru. I helped him gather herbs, mend nets… simple things.” he pauses, continuing in a slower tone.
''Inferno he used to call me.. not for anger, but for the fire he saw in me. A fire that refuses to die.”
His gaze drifts toward the candlelight.
“One evening I found him collapsed by the water. I tried to call for help, but he made me stay. He knew he was dying. He told me crying was useless for people like us, that the world is too big, and no one hears us no matter how loud we shout.”
Musafir’s voice grows quieter, but at the same time steadier.
“He told me about a bird born without legs. A bird that can never land. ‘You are like that bird,’ he said. ‘If you stop moving, you fall. Persevere… or die.’ Those were his last words to me.”
He pauses, then continues with a steadier tone.
“I buried him myself. And at his grave I made a vow. I will not live or die small. I will not be powerless. I will climb… however I can. Power, to me, is not greed. It is freedom. Freedom from the limits that kept him suffering. Freedom from the quiet death that swallows ordinary men.”
Musafir's voice and tone gadually reaches a certain fervor before settling down again. His eyes finally meet the hag’s.
“I’m no warrior yet, no mage. I only have a bow and my will. But I keep moving forward, even if the path turns dark. Like the footless bird… I will keep flying.”
He sits back, calm and composed.
“That is why I’ve come. To find a place where I can grow and to never land.”
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