lovehues

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.”

"Exp'cting me, eh?" Fenrir's voice rasped out, a sound like rust scraping against wood. It wasn't just harsh—it scratched at the air, uncomfortable, like nails on a chalkboard or the sharp scrape of stryofoam. He slinks forward, his boot squelching from the mud clinging to his boots, the earth sucking at his feet with every step. His eyes flick to the hag for a moment, then drop to look to the cushion. Goblins don't sit—they perch. He lowers himself, crouching on the edge like a gargoyle, his elbows digging into his knees, sharp nails drumming against his skin.

"I'm not much differ'nt from the rest," he says, glancing around the tent. It was oddly sketchy, to say the least. "B'rn in a bog, raised by rats and thieves—er, mostly rats. But they ain't so differ'nt from the rest of us, are they? Heh." His voice is gravelly, the words like they're ripped from his throat. A hoarse chuckle escapes, but it turns into a coughing fit, hacking and utterly disgusting. He claps a rough hand to his chest, smothering the fit, then coughs once more before continuing. "I ain't like the other goblins. They take the easy way tr'na make their wealth—pick a p'cket, nick a trinket, and vanish into the muck. But me? Oh-ho, naw. I find things. Things that ain't s'pposed to be found."

The goblin leans back ever-so slightly, the candlelight casting long shadows against his wiry frame. His grin flashes as sharp as his pointy teeth, yellow like aged bone. "Heh. They give me these names, y'see," he adds with a dry laugh. This time, no coughing. "Thief, tomb raid'r. They jus' don't understand what potential is, ye." His head cranes to the side, and the slight crack of his neck can be heard. "Take this place here, f'r instance. From f'rst glance, it's a half-rotted swamp dump." His hand raises, dismissively. "No offense here, heh. I jus' know there's secrets buried in all this muck, ye? Old ones, forgotten long ago. That's where I come in."

With a swift motion, his rough yellow fingernail taps his temple, the faintest glint of something off in his gaze. His smile widens. "Ye, I got whisp'rs in my head now. She wer'n't always there." He pauses, his voice dropping low as his eyes drift. "Nah, she came after my biggest mistake. Found a trinket—a rusted ir'n pendant—buried in the throat of some ol' div'r. Thought it was a lucky charm, ye? Wore it 'round my neck like it was w'rth somethin'. Turns out, it wasn't the trinket that was cursed—it was me."

His eyes trace the surrounding area, suspicious. "I got somebody followin' me. Somethin'—er, odd. She knows things. She calls to me in my sleep. The wat'r. The cold. The hands on my should'rs.." His voice trails off, the memory sinking deep. He shifts uncomfortably, the unease flashing across his face before he forces it down, his gaze fixing back on the hag. "She is always there now. Always watchin'." Fenrir straigtens, his shoulders taut. "So, yeh, I'm here 'cause I need somebody who knows the ol' ways. To lift the—curse, ye? P'rhaps even bury it deep'r, if that's what it takes. I can't run forev'r. Heh." He leans in, his voice getting rougher as it lowers into a whisper. "You been expectin' me, ye? You know what I'm dealin' with.. can you help me..?"