zumaul

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.”
 

Marcellus stepped into the tent, keeping his back straight. The smell of rotting wood and wet moss made him wrinkle his nose, but he didn’t flinch. His grey eyes scanned the flickering candlelight until they settled on the old hag.

“I’m Marcellus,” he said, voice steady. “I came from the Heartlands. I was told you might have answers I need. I don’t know exactly what to expect, but I had to come.”

He shifted slightly on the cushion, maintaining his posture. “I’m here to learn… and to see if you can help me find the path I’m supposed to take.”
 

The hag’s eyes narrowed, flicking over his sharp features and disciplined posture. A slow smile crept across her face. “You’re braver than most, coming here without fear… or sense.” She waved a gnarled hand. “Sit. Tell me what drives a young Heartlander to a town like this. Money? Glory? Or something darker?”

Marcellus leaned back slightly, keeping his gaze fixed on her. “None of that,” he said. “I’m not here for gold, and I don’t care about glory. I want to know… how to handle what’s coming. Things I can’t face alone.”

The hag tilted her head, the candlelight casting shadows across her face. “Ah… so the boy carries more than his years should allow.” She tapped the cushion beside her. “Then listen well. The paths ahead are not straight. Some lead to ruin. Others… to power. But all of them demand a price.”

Marcellus swallowed but stayed seated, fists resting lightly on his knees. “I can pay that price,” he said, voice firm. “Whatever it takes, I’ll see this through.”