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.”
Ildriunn wastes no time; his task is clear. Ignoring any questionable aromas of spice and citrus in the air, he reaches into his belt and procures a scroll. He eyes the room cautiously, scanning for threats and escapes. Eventually, he launches the damp paper across the room, square at the crone.
"I trust you understand why I shan't sit, witch.." he shouts anxiously, his overgrown, dirt-crusted fingernails tapping against the pommel of his sword.
After waiting for the old woman to complete her reading, he clears his throat a bit harshly.
"Coven Mother Olwynn, you are to surrender the corpses of, or innocents abducted, and return to Numenost, the Fair, in my custody to face justice," he demands, practically from memory. Awaiting her answer, he glances intermittently at the fringes of his vision - behind him, under the flaps of the tent.
He continues without awaiting a response, masking his anxiety with impatience. "It matters not what darkness you claim to wield," he states, his voice ringing out with a newfound vigor. "I stand for justice, and I will see it served, no matter the cost." He is, after all, the epitome of the human spirit - determination.
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