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.”
Caemon lowers his hood as he enters the tent, the scent of wet moss and burnt wax curling into his nostrils. His eyes, still and contemplating, flicker towards the lit candles. For a moment, he says nothing. "So you were expecting me," he says quietly, his voice low and warry from his long travels. "I wish I could say the same."
He steps towards the cushion, but does not seat himself straight away. Instead, he looks past the crone, as if seeing something distant. "I come from the coast—what's left of it. My blood carries the burden of firekeepers, watchers, oath-bound men who lit beacons against the dark. Most of their towers are ash now. Most of their names, forgotten." He finally lowers himself onto the cushion, resting one hand over his chest, the other brushing the hilt of his blade. "I've seen signs in the smoke. Heard whispers come from the northern sea-winds. Some call it madness, I call it calling." His gaze settles on hers, cold and resolute. "I don't know what I'm meant to find here. But the fire hasn't gone out, not just yet..."
Recommended Comments