JNC4

I've never roleplayed before and when I write I don't really do dialogue, so thank you in advance for your kindness and feedback if I mess anything up 🙃 
It's quite difficult to fit a whole backstory into exposition so this only deals with a part of it lol, but the most important part (and the only part I've come up with lol).


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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.”

As Verio ducks into the hag's tent, the thick smell of rot filled the air even more than before - musty, damp, years, maybe decades of decay. He pauses briefly, his good eye darting over the insides of the makeshift home and it's hunchbacked inhabitant. They stood like that for a moment, time suspended, as a mixture of surprise, disgust and something inscrutable played out in his gaze upon observing how clean the inside of the hag's tent was and the finery of her robes.

"Expecting me?" He murmed, before nodding slightly. He started moving again and the world seemed to let out the breath it was holding. "Yes, as you should be." He sits.
 

"I was born in a small hamlet in Norland," He begins, low and steady. "You wouldn't know it. It wasn't of note, just some hunting village, small fires, and families warming themselves with them."

"My father was the blacksmith and head of the militia. Hardly legendary, he spent his days forging nails and horseshoes. But he was a hero in his own way, gentle, soft and always ready to show that his kindness was borne from strength when it came down to it."

It looks like a faint smile creases his eyes, before they harden again.

"Then some fighting men came through - soldiers of the Church. They needed food, shelter, and repairs. They also needed some extra wages." He pauses for a moment. "My father wasn't too happy about that, when he found them stealing from the weaker folk at swordpoint."

"Unfortunately, this isn't a tale told to the commoners to keep their pride sated. They cut him down where he stood - didn't even give him a chance for a riposte. Then they decided having witnesses wouldn't be very helpful." He let out a slight exhale. "Well, you can find the rest in the Cannonist reports. False flag operation by enemy; just some hunting village, small fires, and families... warming themselves with them."

"But they missed me, hiding with my face pressed so hard to the embers of my ancestral home that I have to wear this mask. I missed them too. I miss them now, sorely." He stops, his gaze focusing in on the hag.

"That's how I learnt the cost of cleanliness. Don't misunderstand, not all that is clean is rotten, and I've come across many a noble with a genteel soul." His voice grew heavier. "But the 'sanitised' - the unsoiled amongst the dirt - I know better now. The perjury, the lies, the filth, hidden under a mask of cleanliness; I can't stand it."

He leans closer to the hag. Uncomfortably close. "I may only have one eye, crone, but I can still see well enough."