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?))
Uryb lowers his hood as the candlelight dances across his weather-lined face. The damp scent of moss and rot mixes with the faint leather and smoke that cling to him. He meets the crone’s eyes without a flinch and settles onto the cushion with a quiet, deliberate weight.
"Thirty-nine winters have carved me as sure as mountain ice,..." he begins, voice a low rumble. "... I am Uryb of the northern Clans - broad of shoulder, aye, and hardened by sleet and stone. My frame is built from years of axe-swinging labor and marches through peaks where the wind cuts like a blade."
He brushes a gloved hand through his long, wavy dark-blond hair; the full, well-kept beard framing his square jaw gleams faintly in the candlelight.
"My hair carries the hue of chestnut touched by northern sun, and these eyes - steel-grey, so I’m told - have watched many a storm and many a man falter. Traders and warriors alike shy from their gaze, but I seek no fear, only truth."
His fingers drum lightly on the broad belt that holds his tools and blade, the heavy wool and layered leathers of the frontier shifting as he breathes.
"I come from mountains where only the strong endure. I have hunted, fought, and buried kin before their time. The winds there whisper respect to those who stand unyielding, and I have listened well. I walk with a hunter’s patience, charting my own road, heedless of doubters. That road,..." he gives the hag a steady look. "... has led me through swamp and shadow to your tent this night."
He pauses for a brief moment.
"So tell me: why did the winds guide me here, to the place you claim has been expecting me?"
The candle flames waver as if leaning in to hear her answer.
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