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.”
"Aye," the Highlander grumbles, a sound not far removed from distant thunder. He regards her in turn for a moment, then shrugs. "S'posin' ye were." Kaldur's joints creak and groan in protest as he lowers himself to sit before the wise woman, a relieved huff following his body's report of cracks and pops. He shifts slightly against the cushion, allowing his weight to settle into just the right spot before continuing. "I am Kaldur, son of Frode. Most folk—not folk 'round here, mind ye—know me as, if nothin' else, a sea dog picklin' in years. Save for the times which hardly matter, I've spent my life aboard ships. Captained none—but each I've served upon I'd give my life for, crew 'n cargo alike." At this he chuckles, his gaze growing distant for a moment between breaths. "Almost have, more'n a few times..."
Finally, his focus returned, Kaldur clears his throat and resumes the tale. "Lost plenty, if never my life." He gestures towards the bright red scar cresting his brow and rolling across the ruined remains of an eye. "Wearin' the marks what are visible, carryin' inside those that aren't. When times got tough I toiled as a pirate. The pay was terrible 'n the food even worse. I can abide a life of slim pockets, but I'd rather be poor 'n fed than poorly fed. Tried skippin' out soon as I could, though some... disagreed with the idea. Next thing I knew, I'm cut near to ribbons and driftin' down to the lightless depths. Thought I was done for—by all accounts fairly weighed, I should be." Kaldur sighs, a sound both wistful and tired. "But the sea saw fit to return me, so I s'pose that means I'm needed for more than the sum I expected." A deep, gurgling rumble bubbles up from the stout Highlander's belly, to which he pats a placating hand upon it and moves to stand. "Now, before we continue... I'm willin' to bet some of them reeds in the muck out back, while not much in the way of taste, make for a lovely mash for fryin' up into flatbread, eh? Omens 'n matters of prophecy should never be discussed on an empty stomach. What say ye?"
Recommended Comments