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?))
Zara Fernwoods ducked into the tent, the scent of damp moss and smoke clinging to her leathers. Candlelight danced across her braided hair and moss-green eyes as she stepped forward, silent as a shadow.
The hag’s words made her pause, fingers brushing the hilt at her hip. But the woman’s tone was curious, not cruel.
Zara lowered herself onto the cushion, gaze sharp. “My story?” she said, voice quiet. “Started in Hollow Woods, where the woods teach you quick what’s safe and what bites.”
She leaned forward slightly. “But I’m not here by chance. If you’ve been expectin’ me, then maybe you already know what I’m lookin’ for.”
Zara Fernwoods was born and raised in the Hollow Woods, a quiet, overgrown village hidden deep within an ancient forest. Life there wasn’t easy, but it was honest. Her days were spent weaving through thickets, learning which mushrooms could heal and which could kill, and how to move without a sound beneath the trees. The elders taught her stories carved in bark and whispered on the wind, while her parents—humble trappers—taught her how to survive when the forest turned cruel.
She grew up quick, clever, and quiet, more comfortable with beasts than with strangers. When trouble came through the Hollow Woods—be it a sick wolf, a lost traveler, or a creeping shadow—Zara was often the first to meet it. And now, with a worn satchel and the weight of old tales on her shoulders, she’s left the forest in search of something beyond the trees.
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