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?))
Farron’s grip tightened around the pommel of his sword, his knuckles white with tension. He had heard words like those before—*I’ve been expecting you.* Witches, seers, and liars always said the same thing, wrapping their words in riddles before demanding a price. He had no patience for it.
The air inside the tent was thick with the stench of magic. It clung to the wooden beams, hummed in the flickering candlelight, and curled through the strange trinkets dangling from the ceiling. A small bowl near the candles caught his eye—its contents dark, shifting sluggishly as though something inside was still alive. His lip curled slightly. Another curse? Another ritual? He didn’t trust magic. He never had. It always demanded more than it gave.
And yet, he was here.
With a sharp exhale, he reached into his coat, retrieving a torn scrap of cloth. It was stiff with dried blood, reeking of wet fur and something deeper—something foul. He tossed it onto the table.
“There’s a pack of werewolves moving through these lands,” he said, voice low and edged with frustration. “They’ve been hitting villages on the outskirts—bodies torn apart, half-eaten, the usual signs.” His jaw clenched. “I’ve been tracking them for weeks. Every time I get close, they vanish.”
The flickering candlelight caught the faint silver scars along his forearm—old marks from past hunts. He had spent years cutting these monsters down, ridding the world of their kind. It was what he did. What he *was.* A hunter. And a damned good one.
His golden eyes flicked back to the hag, sharp and unreadable. “I need a way to find them before the next attack.” The words tasted bitter on his tongue. He hated asking for this. Hated needing magic. “Tracking them the usual way isn’t enough.”
A pause. His fingers twitched against the pommel of his sword, as if bracing for whatever deal she might offer.
“I don’t like magic,” he admitted, his voice quieter now, taut with controlled disdain. “I know it always comes with a price. But if it gets me to that pack before they kill again… I’ll pay it.”
Recommended Comments