You’ve just arrived in a swampy, dim town. As you look around, your gaze is met with shacks and cabins. It smells of rotted wood and wet moss. You 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?))
"Didn't know I was such a celebrity," Viktoriya snarked, plopping down on the cushion with lackadaisical panache. "Way to make a girl feel special, grandma."
"You've got quite the sharp tongue, lass," the hag chittered. Gods above, her voice sounded like someone ran a cheese grater through gravel. "But if I'd prefer your real story over the jester act. I'm not getting any younger."
"Clearly," Viktoriya muttered under her breath. The hag shot her a look that could spoil milk, and she recoiled. "Sorry. Uh. Trying to work on the snark, I promise. My master's trying to get me out of that habit."
"Master?" the hag questioned, leaning forward with a creak in her joints. Just how old was she, anyways?
"Just hush up and let me tell my story, babusya," said Viktoriya with a sigh. "Yeah. Master. I'm a squire to Ser Miklós, of House Korvacz. He found me when I was little, out on the streets, took me in as his page. Can you believe it? Taking in a little street rat and raising her to be your page? Guy's got a bleeding heart. It's gonna get him hurt one day."
She paused, then shook her head with a smile. "Well, he's only going to get hurt if I'm not around to stop it. I owe him my life. He's good people. The whole house, they're good people. You get what I mean? So I've just been continuing my apprenticeship. Even been cutting down the snark - or, well, trying to, I suppose. You can tell I'm not really doing a good enough job on that."
The hag continued to stare at Viktoriya. Viktoriya bristled.
"Look, babusya, what more do you want me to tell, huh? Want me to tell you what I had for breakfast? It was porridge, by the way, got those oats nice and soggy. Real fascinating, huh? Look," Viktoriya said as she began to stand up. "Nice chat, good to meet you, try not to keel over and die in the next half hour. I'm sure your great-great-grandkids would miss you a lot. Unfortunately for us, I have to leave. I have training with Ser Miklós at noon, and I have to meet with him at the tavern."
Viktoriya grabbed her rucksack and longsword, and ducked down to leave the tent, only to feel something tug the back of her capelet. She turned around to find the hag, holding on to her with gnarled, wrinkled hands and a stare that could pierce mithril.
"Viktoriya Ivanivna Kiska," hissed the hag. "Watch your back. The winds of fate will not be kind to you."
Something curdled deep in Viktoriya's gut. "Yeah," she said, tugging her capelet out of the hag's grasp. She swallowed, pushing down the words of warning, and nodded. "I know." With that, Viktoriya left the tent, leaving the hag -- and her words -- behind her.
[ The physical description box above wouldn't let me type everything, so I'm including it here ].
Viktoriya looks like she was born to pick a fight. She's all lean muscle and wiry tension, and she holds herself like she's got some real gravel in her guts. She's not very comely, either. Her nose is a tad bit crooked from one too many fists to the face, her skin has a concerningly yellow undertone to it, and her dark brown hair has a straw-like consistency to it. It probably doesn't help that her clothes do nothing to help her sickly complexion; her olive-green capelet is plain, her chainmail a little baggy, her pants ill fitting. She looks and acts like a street kid, grown up to maturity.
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