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?))
He enters the tent with a stiff, heavy gait, boots an pant legs still wet, through and through, from the swamp outside. As he enters the tent, it is filled with the stench of sweat and mildew. He stands there for a moment, staring at the hag with a long, tired look as if deciding whether she's worth the air. He eventually sits down on the cushion with the painful, aching motion of someone who's walked too long and slept too little. "I'm not here for tea and gossip," he growls, his voice rough, like the stereotypical outlaw southern drawl. "I've been told you're informed. About people who stopped showin' their faces.. or people who don't stay dead when they oughta." His eyes scan the room, not paranoid, but wary. The kind of thing you get used to after too many restless nights. He leans back far enough to rest his calloused fingers over his knees. "You want to hear my story? I'll. I spent my best years fightin' for what I thought was noble. Thought I was doing good. 'til I figured out whose orders I was really following." His eyes tighten, focusing on her again. "Now I'm here.". I don't believe in prophets, or oracles, or whatever you're sellin'.. but every road I've walked leads me here. So if you've actually been waitin' on me, please, speak.
Dane, The Tarnished Star, was once a swordsman bound to a frontier lord charged with keeping the outer marches in their place. For years, he made arrests, hunted criminals, and collected debts in his lord's name, earning both fear and grudging respect from the people who dwelt on the edge of the world. He wore an iron badge in the shape of a star, a symbol on power, but the shine faded with each mission that crossed the line between justice and brutality. Having been ordered to order an attack on an unarmed village that had failed to pay its tax, Dane finally defected. He cast away his title, abandoned his post, and disappeared into the forest, leaving behind his rank and reputation. Now a wandering sellsword, he takes whatever job he can find, tracking, bounty hunting, escort duty.
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