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?))
Krofthu squinted his eyes, tensing his fist for a moment before easing his grip. Staying alert to his surroundings, he drew a slow breath and began to speak to the hag. “Well, it’s not like I wanted to be here,” he grunted, his voice low and rough. “Never wanted much of anything, truth be told.”
He shifted his weight, eyes flicking briefly to the candles before settling back on her. “I was born without a clan to claim me. Left behind before I could even remember faces. Orc pups don’t last long on their own, but I did. Learned quick how to steal scraps, how to keep my head down, and how to hit first when running wasn’t enough.”
His hand drifted unconsciously to the scar along the side of his head. “Most of what I learned came with blood. Mine, mostly. Sometimes others’. Never knew who took my ear, only that he woke up missing part of it and knew better than to ask questions.”
He let out a short, humorless breath. “I’ve drifted from camp to camp, town to town. When I worked, it was with my hands or my fists. When I fought, it was for coin or survival. Never stayed long enough to belong.” His gaze hardened as he met hers again. “So if you were expecting me, then you already know this much. I didn’t come here chasing fate or prophecy. I came because everywhere else stopped wanting me first.”
Krofthu turned to leave, muttering without looking back, “But I’m tired of being pushed around.” Then he stormed into the night, disappearing into the shadows, leaving nothing behind but the echo of his footsteps.
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