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.”
 

Darko Ironhand does not sit immediately.

The swamp air clings to him — thick, damp, tasting of rot and old water. He ducks beneath the tent’s torn flap, the iron rings in his braids clicking softly. Candlelight floats unnaturally overhead, its glow catching against the black iron of his gauntlet.

His amber gaze narrows at the sight of the old hag.

He studies her the way a soldier studies a battlefield.

Only after a long moment does he step forward. The ground creaks under his weight as he lowers himself onto the offered cushion. Even seated, he seems too large for the fragile space.

“You were expecting me,” Darko rumbles, his voice low and gravel-worn. It is not a question.

The iron fingers of his gauntlet flex once, metal whispering against metal.

“I came because the marsh whispers carry your name,” he continues. “They say you see what others pretend not to. They say you trade in truths.”

A faint smirk touches one tusked corner of his mouth.

“My story is not a short one, crone. It begins with fire and iron.”

He reaches up with his bare hand, brushing the scar that runs from temple to jaw.

“I was born beneath a red sky, in a clan that valued strength above breath. I learned to hold a blade before I learned to read the wind. I fought in wars that were not mine. I buried brothers who should have died old.”

His gaze drifts to the floating candles.

“This hand—” he lifts the iron gauntlet slightly “—was not always iron. Flesh failed me when I needed it most.”

He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, voice lowering.

“I did something I cannot undo. Something that followed me through every battlefield after. The dead are quieter than the living, but they do not forget.”

His golden eyes lock onto hers.

“So if you have been expecting me, hag… then you already know.”

A pause. The tent feels smaller somehow.

“Tell me,” Darko says evenly, “what price do you ask to speak the rest aloud?”