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?))
Clovis stepped into the tent with slow, deliberate care, each movement stiff from the damp settling into his hip. He scanned the candlelit haze, the rot, the crone, all of it observed through tired, dark eyes. Clovis rarely stepped beyond the comfort of civilisation; the thick, wet air made his already painful movements feel all the more perilous.
“Expecting me? No one quite expects me,” he said flatly, more statement than question. His gaze lingered a moment longer than was polite as he studied the hag’s features. He disliked being spoken to like a prophecy, prophecies were for poor souls clinging to the illusion of purpose.
Seeing that the old woman waited eagerly for a response, Clovis’s hip got the better of him and forced him to sit. The cushion, at least, was a welcome relief. He lowered himself with quiet control, masking the flicker of pain that passed through his joints.
“My story, you ask?” he echoed, voice low.
“I wouldn’t call it a story. More… a reflection on the failings of humanity.”
He let the silence stretch, eyes drifting to the flickering candles, offering more heat than he could bear in this sodden swamp.
“I was once an archivist. A keeper of ink and paper. Not exactly the stuff of legend.”
His eyes stayed on the flame. “But even low men can stumble on high truths. Some scrolls were never meant to be read. Some names never meant to be spoken aloud.”
He brushed back a damp strand of hair, revealing two missing fingers on his left hand.
“Turns out, people in power don’t fear lies, they fear truth written too plainly.”
His voice dropped. “Seeking truth only matters when the truth wants to be uncovered. Unluckily for me, it didn’t. Now, my limp and my scars are daily reminders of what that earned me.”
He wasn’t searching for sympathy, only the confirmation that someone was listening.
“I drift now, offering counsel to men who claim they want answers. Until the answers turn on them.”
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