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.”
"My story?" His voice carries that northern weight, rough as wind over stone. "It’s not a pretty one."
He lowers himself onto the cushion, boots sinking into the soft earth.
"Raiders came for my village. One of them swung for my sister—I stepped in."
He tilts his head slightly, the candlelight catching the scar.
"Left him in the snow with his own axe in his chest."
A breath, half a smile.
"But some debts don’t end with a grave. That’s why I’m here.
" He is the nephew of the brothers Winchester"
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