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.”
Glegorin's eyes narrow as he steps into the tent, the damp air clinging to his cloak. He shifts uncomfortably, his fingers brushing the hilt of his blade before he lowers his hand to his side. His grey eyes meet the hag’s gaze, assessing her with quiet suspicion.
“Mm, you’ve been expectin’ me, but that d'nt explain why I’m here.” He grunts as he sits, shifting the weight of his travel-worn gear. “I didn’t come for tales, only answers. I need to know what’s happened here, and I need to know now.”
He watches the old woman intently, waiting for her next move, but not without a sense of caution — in this place, nothing was as it seemed.
Glegorin’s gaze hardens, but for the first time, his voice carries the weight of something deeper—something personal. He shifts on the cushion, his eyes distant as he begins.
“I was born in the northern reaches of Norland, a land where the cold bites deeper than a blade, where men are forged in the fires of war. My name—Glegorin Snow—it’s a mark, not a blessing. A bastard’s name, one I’ve carried since the day I was born. My mother… she was of the northern clans, strong and proud. But my father? I never knew him. Some say he was a knight of the Kingdom of Haense, others say a mercenary from lands far beyond. But he was never there.”
His hand subconsciously finds the hilt of his blade, as if searching for some comfort in the motion.
“I grew up in a village where only the strong survive. I learned to fight before I could speak. The cold, the hunger—it’s what shapes you. And when I was old enough, I left. Wandered the lands of Aevos, searching for something I couldn’t name. Answers, perhaps. Or purpose. I joined a mercenary band—thought I could make something of myself. But in the world of blades and coin, all you find is betrayal. Loyalty’s a currency that doesn’t buy much. And then I saw something I didn’t expect.”
Glegorin’s hand clenches into a fist, his knuckles white.
“So now I’m here. Wandering, searching. I don’t know what for—answers, fate, or just a way to make sense of it all. But I’ll find out, one way or another. And if there’s something in this forsaken town that can help me, I’m listening.”
Glegorin leans back, his gaze shifting toward the flickering candles as he gathers his thoughts. The weight of what he’s about to speak lingers in the air.
“After everything I’ve seen—bloodshed, betrayal, war… I’ve come to a conclusion,” he begins, his voice steady. “The world’s full of factions, clans, kingdoms, all pulling at one another, hungry for power, land, influence. And the North… the North’s always been the last line of defense against the wilds, the beasts, the storms. But it’s also been forgotten, left to rot, consumed by petty conflicts.”
He shifts, his voice gaining strength.
“I’m forming something different—a faction, not bound to the politics of the south, not swayed by the ambitions of kings or lords. I’m calling it ‘The Watchers.’ A neutral force, born out of necessity, not desire. We’ll stand as guardians of the northern reaches, from the coldest winds to the darkest forests. We’ll keep the peace, yes—but not for power, not for glory. For survival.”
He looks at the hag, his eyes unwavering.
“The North doesn’t have time for games, for the feuds that poison the rest of the world. The Watchers will be a clan forged in neutrality. We’ll defend those in need, regardless of their banners, and we’ll keep the wilds in check, before they swallow everything whole. The people who join us—mercenaries, outcasts, soldiers, even the lost—they’ll know what it means to protect, not to conquer.”
He stands then, his tall frame casting a long shadow in the dim light.
“I’ve seen what happens when ambition runs unchecked. When men and women fight for their own gain, they forget the world around them. They forget what’s truly important. The Watchers will be the last line of defense for those who can’t defend themselves, the ones caught in the middle of it all. We’ll hold the North, keep it standing, no matter the cost.”
He pauses, his gaze darkening with resolve.
“I don’t know where this road leads, but I’m walking it. And if I have to carve a place for The Watchers in this broken world, I will. For the North, for those who still remember what it means to protect, not just take.”
His voice drops to a near whisper, the weight of his words clear.
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