SunsetDreamerZzz

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?))

"You... you've been expecting me?" He sits down out of politeness, but inspects her cautiously. After but a moment, he gives in. "Sorry, you asked something of me, and I'll answer. Normally, I wouldn't simply trust a stranger like this, but something about you is... inviting.” He takes a deep breath, preparing for a long story. “Considering you recognized me, I’m guessing you know my name, but just in case, I’m Eolo Adel. My father was a Highlander who committed some misdeed—that which he never told me—that was so horrible he felt it was necessary to escape to Deus Proditor, where he met my mother. My mother was a Qalasheen huntress known for her hunting prowess, but despite her strong and courageous nature, she felt allured by my father's strange tales of this land. After four or five years of being together, they finally had me and my brother. All throughout my childhood, while my mother taught me her hunting tactics, my father amazed me with tales of a land more diverse than I could ever imagine. He spoke of gigantic, snow-covered mountains, enormous cliffsides, sky-piercing chapels, and, most notably, a magical forest of eternal nightfall. He had always promised to take my brother and I here someday, so he can show us everything there was to see here. Unfortunately, before he could,” he chokes a bit, stifling a small sob, “he fell deadly ill. On his deathbed, he gripped my face and apologized that he could never show me what he could tell I was so amazed by. I cried that night; I cried harder than I ever have. I promised him—no, I promised myself—that I would travel to this land and write of my journey. I promised that I would write tales of all the sights I never got to see so maybe my father could rest peacefully knowing that all of his stories didn't fall on deaf ears.” He stops for a moment, calming himself and drinking a flask of water he had on his hip. “Well, what about you?” he asks, partially to change the topic. “Who are you supposed to be?”