They are 6ft and weigh 80kg. Brown eyes, black hair.
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.”
I step into the dim light of the tent, thick with the scent of herbs and something far less pleasant. My boots make soft, wet sounds against the muddy floor, and the flickering candlelight casts a long shadows across the worn fabric of the tent. The hags words hang in the air , heavy with unspoken knowledge. I lower my hood slightly, showing my face pale, drawn with eyes seen to know too much. “I did not come here for answers, old woman.” I say, my voice low, carrying the weight of years spent among the dead. “But perhaps you can give me a few, if you’re clever enough”
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