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.”
Rylanor sits, the seat creeks as it supports his weight. His lips part as he begins to tell a tale of misfortune.
"I do not remember much of my youth." He began "Only fragments of my time experimented on by a Sorcerer far east from here."
The room seemed to darken as Rylanor continued, this was merely an illusion on the witches part as her focus narrowed.
"I cried," Rylanor's hand touched his cheek "I cried for a mother, a family a home. At some point The Sorcerer had enough." Rylanor leaned back, the seat cracked once more. "He gave me these scars which run down my face. He wanted a slow death for me; for his little subject he would call me."
Rylanor nodded a smirk crawled up his face almost insidiously, "If he was going to take everything from me--my life, then I surely should do the same."
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