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?)
Alasdair stands a moment longer than manners call for, eyes adjusting to the wavering light. Rain hisses softly against the canvas above. He brushes a hand over his kilt, more out of habit than hope of drying, and lowers himself onto the cushion. The fabric groans under his weight.
“Aye,” he says, voice low and rough from travel. “If this place stinks of fate, I suppose I should’ve known I’d find it sooner or later.”
He looks past the hag for a heartbeat, as if trying to see through the tent wall, back toward the foggy road he came from.
“I was a son of the north. Clan Davidson, once proud, now scattered. When the snows came harder than the crops could stand, I took to wandering. Carried my father’s blade, my mother’s warnings, and not much else.”
His hand rests on the hilt at his side, thumb brushing over a nick in the leather.
“I’ve seen enough towns like this, rotted edges of old promises. But if you truly were expectin’ me, then maybe you ken what it is I’m supposed to be lookin’ for. Gold? Forgiveness? Or just a place that doesn’t spit me back out come morning.”
He leans forward, the candlelight catching the grey in his eyes.
“So, Witch...............why AM I here?”
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