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?))
Example:
"I was born in a small wooden cabin at the edge of the Forest — no village near, just trees, wind, and silence. My ma, Claire, she’d come out there long before I was born. Never said much about my father, only that he was a man of the road. 'Wouldn’t stay,' she’d say. That was enough.
Life was simple. Hard. We grew what we could in the soil, trapped rabbits when the snares worked. She taught me how to split wood, fix a fence, and read from a few torn pages of scripture she kept in this old leather pouch. Not much, but it mattered. I learned how to make do.
I guess I was always quiet. Didn’t talk much to anyone but her. Didn't trust easy. Still don’t, truth be told. But when storms rolled in, we’d sit by the fire, and she’d tell me about the world past the trees — castles shining in the sun, markets full of noise and color, church bells ringing out like stories in the wind. I used to think she made half of it up.
When I wasn’t helping with chores, I’d wander the woods, take notes on herbs, trees... whatever I could find. Ma didn’t like taking me into the villages, but sometimes we had no choice. Supplies run low, winters too long. On those rare trips to the market village, I’d watch, listen. Pick up bits of knowledge like crumbs on a trail.
When I was sixteen, the winter came in hard, and Ma took sick. No healer nearby, no potions worth a damn. I tried — herbs, warmth, prayer — all of it. But it wasn’t enough. She passed before the thaw. I buried her under a birch tree near the cabin. Marked the spot with a wooden cross. It's still there.
After that... I stayed. Just kept living the way she taught me. Hunt, gather, survive. Years passed.
I was twenty. And I don’t know why exactly, but something had been pulling at me lately — something outside the trees. A feeling like there’s more waiting beyond the forest edge. So I had packed what I had, locked up the cabin, and walked the path to the old market village.
I didn't know what I was looking for yet. But I knew I would know once I found it."
Recommended Comments