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?))
Tyrion smirks, crossing his arms as he leans against the wall before reluctantly sitting.
So, you’ve been expecting me? That’s rich. I didn’t even know there was anything worth expecting in this rather awful place. But sure, if you want a story, I’ll humor you.
He takes a deep breath, his tone laced with a hint of sarcasm but also tinged with something darker- resentment maybe?.
My name is Tyrion Bacardi. Don’t bother pretending you’ve heard it before—because you haven’t. Nobody has. My family was just another forgettable name in a city full of em. We weren’t nobles, we weren’t powerful, we weren’t even feared. But my father liked it that way— it kept us quiet, unremarkable. That didn’t mean he wasn’t pulling strings from the shadows though. It meant that we were comfortable,—but never enough to draw the wrong kind of attention.
Tyrion leans forward, his voice dropping slightly.
My father always preached loyalty, duty, family—but what he really meant was obedience. You do as you’re told, you don’t ask questions, you don’t think too much about what your actually doing. And for a time, I played along. Why wouldn’t I? Life was easy. But then I started paying attention. The late-night visitors with nervous eyes, the quiet exchanges, the favors that bought silence rather than gratitude. I saw the way my father moved the pieces, the way he pulled strings from the dark—and to be honest, i was impressed. I decided I wanted a hand in the game, to not just to be another one of his pawns. Damm, i was his son after all! But power, you see, isn’t something men like him share. He never saw me as his son... He saw me as opposition. So when I finally pushed too far, when I made it clear I wouldn’t just sit and obey—he showed me exactly where I stood.
He leans back while shaking his head with a bitter chuckle.
And just like that, I was gone. Tossed out like a bad investment. My own father looked me in the eye and decided I wasn’t worth the trouble. Can you imagine that? Your own father deciding you’re more of an inconvenience than a son?
His fingers drum lightly against the table before he waves a hand dismissively.
So, here I am. Half a world away from where I started, with nothing but my own wit and a very clear goal—make something of myself. Build something. And if, in the process, I happen to out do the man who threw me away? If I make his name—our name—one worth remembering. Me, the son who he thought was just a nobody, so he can live till the end of his days and choke on his regret?
Well, that would just be poetic, wouldn’t it?
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