You’ve just arrived in a swampy, dim town. As you look around, your gaze is met with shacks and cabins. It smells of rotted wood and wet moss. You 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.”
Jorhor stepped into the dim tent, his hand resting on the dagger at his side. The candles flickered, casting shadows on his face that made him look older than he really was. He nodded at the hag, though his voice sounded a bit unsure.
"So, you knew I was coming?" he asked, glancing around the room cautiously.
He sat down slowly on the cushion she pointed to, not taking his hand off the dagger. His face looked tired as he started talking, his eyes lowering to the ground for a moment.
"I’ve come a long way," he said, his voice serious. "I grew up in a small village on the edge of the Velenic Plateau. Just farms, not much else. My parents were farmers—good people. They taught me how to survive. We didn’t have a lot, but we got by."
He paused, frowning, as if the memories were painful.
"Then the sickness came," he muttered, glancing at the hag again, as if hoping she'd understand.
His grip on the dagger tightened, his knuckles going pale.
"It took them first—my parents. I watched them waste away. People said it was a curse, something ancient and evil." Jorhor’s voice shook a bit, and he took a breath to steady himself.
Looking back at the hag, there was a hint of desperation in his eyes.
"I had to bury them, and the whole village after that. I’ve been chasing every rumor since. It led me here. If you know anything... I need to know."
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