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.”
Bran ducked beneath the tent’s flap, his eyes narrowing at the sight of the flickering candles. The hag’s words pulled a humorless grunt from his throat as he lowered himself stiffly onto the cushion.
“My story?” he echoed, scratching at the stubble along his jaw. “Not much worth telling. Born in the highlands, lost my kin before I was grown. Learned early the world don’t give you anything but hunger and hard ground.” His gaze swept the tent, unimpressed, before returning to the crone.
“I left my village the moment I could. Since then, I’ve walked roads, hunted game, and scraped coin where it fell into my hands. Sometimes I lend a hand to the lost—sometimes I take what I need from fools who should’ve known better. That’s the way of it.”
He leaned back slightly, his expression unreadable. “If you’ve been expecting me, hag, then you know already—I’m no hero, no lord’s son. Just a man looking for something better than a cold bed and an empty belly.”
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