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?))
Thaor narrows his eyes slightly, pausing just inside the threshold of the tent. The candlelight flickers across his pale features, casting soft shadows along the sharp angles of his face. He doesn’t sit immediately—he studies the hag in silence, as if weighing her soul with a glance.
"You speak as though time bends to your will," he says, voice smooth but distant. "Few claim to expect me. Fewer still live to say it twice."
He steps forward finally, lowering himself onto the cushion with controlled grace, folding his hands loosely in his lap. His icy gaze never leaves hers.
"My name is Thaor of Ilythamar. I’ve crossed a continent under moonless skies, through the ruins of empires and the whispers of the dead, drawn here by dreams I do not claim to understand. If you truly expected me, then speak, seer—tell me what fate thinks it knows of me."
He leans forward slightly, the candlelight glinting in his eyes like cold fire.
Recommended Comments