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.”
Guy de Lusignan stepped quietly into the tent, hammering the mud with his boots, with the point of his sheath lightly dragging into the ground. Candlelight reflected off the metal of his polished armor, spilling shadows over his apathetic face. His hand rested on his pommel.
"Were you expecting me?" The last remnants of his native Poitevin accent resurfaced in his voice. He breathed in sharply, showing a glimpse of self-shame and disgrace. "If you know who I am, then you know what I've done and lost."
He turns to the door as if to leave, away from the woman. " Power is a transient thing, old one, especially when your enemies wield daggers in the dark while you wield a sword in the light."
His expressions darkened, clouded by memory. "I fought. I bled. I lost everything. My homeland, a wife, a son, and the trust of my men." He exhales, shaking his head. "And so I wander now, in lands not my own, following god's will like a hound on a scent."
He raises his gaze to the hag's, locking in wordless intensity. "So tell me, crone, if you were waiting for me—what is it that awaits me here?"
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