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.”
Aemon didn’t move at first. His eyes scanned the tent, lingering briefly on the way the candlelight trembled against the worn canvas. Water dripped steadily from the hem of his cloak, forming a quiet pool at his boots. Then, without a word, he stepped forward.
He didn’t sit immediately. Instead, he studied the hag in silence — not with fear or disrespect, but with the patience of a man who’d learned not to speak before understanding who was listening.
“…If you’ve been expecting me, then you already know I carry more silence than words,” he said, voice low and measured. Only then did he ease down onto the cushion, his armor whispering with the motion.
From beneath his cloak, he drew a small crystal fragment — pale, smooth, and cold — and placed it gently on the ground between them.
“My name is Aemon. No lord, no title worth speaking here. Just a man walking a long road west of regret. The stars marked me for something once… but even stars fade.”
He glanced at the shard, then back at the hag.
“This is all that’s left of my brother’s blade. I couldn’t save him. Not then.”
A long pause followed. The air inside the tent seemed to shift — heavier, charged.
“I came looking for answers. But if I find nothing… I’ll settle for peace.”
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