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.”
((How do you respond?))
Shandarai didn’t flinch at the hag’s recognition—her posture remained tall, one hand resting lightly on the curve of her hip. Her silvery hair caught the flicker of candlelight as she stepped further in, boots barely making a sound on the worn rugs beneath her. With a cool, self-assured smile, she lowered herself onto the cushion with the grace of someone long accustomed to being watched.
“I imagine you have,” she said smoothly, crossing one leg over the other. “They say fate is a winding road, but mine? It always seems to lead straight into trouble.”
She leaned forward slightly, emerald eyes glinting with curiosity—and calculation.
“So then. Shall I start with the ruins, or the rebellion?”
Candles seem to quiver in their holders, as if eager to hear the tale. Shandarai glances at the hag again with a knowing smile, "Either way there will be blood, bargains, and a bit of fire."
Then, casually brushing a strand of that iridescent silver hair behind her ear, she adds "Though if you have truly been expecting me, then you already know how this ends."
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