Zyanite2036

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?))

Draven stepped deeper into the tent, the heavy scent of wax and swamp air curling in his lungs. The leather of his armor creaked softly as he moved, every motion deliberate, as if the very shadows held their breath around him. He lowered his hood, revealing short brown hair dampened slightly by the mist outside, and his bright green eyes locked with the hag’s, steady, unblinking. “I didn’t come here for stories,” he said, his voice low and edged with purpose, like a blade drawn slowly from its sheath. “But if you’ve been expecting me, then you already know why I’m here.” He studied her face, creased like old bark, her eyes too sharp for someone so withered, and then lowered himself onto the cushion with the ease of a predator resting, not relaxing. His bow remained slung across his back, just in case. “The forest led me here. It whispered of you in its sleep, spoke your name on the wind between dead trees and restless roots,” he said, his tone quiet but firm. “I crossed ruined trails, passed forgotten graves, all to find the one who sees without sight.” He leaned forward slightly, his eyes aglow in the candlelight. “So tell me, seer, what truth waited for me in this place of rot and silence?”