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.”
Raijin didn’t flinch when the hag’s eyes met his. The candlelight cast strange shapes across his face, swallowing some features while sharpening others. Water dripped somewhere behind him, muffled by the thick silence of the tent. He stood still for a breath longer than expected, gaze lingering on the woman like he was weighing her against something unspoken. Then, with a tired exhale, he moved. Each step toward the cushion was quiet, deliberate. He sat. Cross-legged. Shoulders held with a tension that didn’t loosen, not even in rest. One hand settled over the katana at his hip, the curve of the sheath catching a faint gleam from the candlelight. His fingers brushed the hilt once, then again... slow... circling.
“Escaping from a place unwilling to satisfy my spirit...” His grip closed tighter around the weapon. The flicker of flame above him bent slightly, disturbed by the faint shift in the air. “...and to see if there’s anything else willing to fill the void in my chest.” Raijin didn’t blink. Didn’t shift. He waited. Silent, still—like the next words might matter. Like the hag had something worth hearing.
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