Vamicoru

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?))

Helen steps into the dim light of the tent, the faint glow from the candles casting shadows on her weathered face. Her eyes, cold and calculating, flicker over the hag with an unsettling calm. She moves slowly, deliberately, her gnarled hands brushing against the fraying fabric of her cloak as she lowers herself onto the cushion.

Her voice is soft but carries a weight to it, as though every word has been measured through years of suffering and solitude.

"I didn't come here to be expected," Helen says, her gaze never leaving the old woman’s face. "But I suppose it makes no difference. I am here because the world has cast me aside, and in its shadows, I have come to seek what was lost. My story...," she pauses, looking down at her hands, the skin rotting away slowly, "is one of regret and consequence. I sought power in places where it should never have been found."

She leans forward, eyes narrowing. "And now I search for the means to end my suffering. If you know of such a thing, then perhaps you are the reason I have arrived. Tell me what you know."

Her words hang in the air, thick with both sorrow and defiance. The tent seems to grow colder as she speaks, as if the very space around her is charged with the tension of an ancient curse, and it’s clear this hag is not the only one who has been expecting something tonight.