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?))
Percival hesitates before sitting, carefully brushing swamp mud from his boots as if politeness might ward off curses. He lowers himself onto the cushion, back straight, hands folded.
“I did not come seeking this town,” he says softly. “Nor you, if I am being honest.”
His eyes drift to the candles, then back to the hag.
“I was born to a small noble house. I was taught how to speak properly, how to bow, how to believe in honor. I was not taught what to do when the road ends in fog and rot.” A faint, nervous smile crosses his face.
“So I walked. I listened. I followed rumors, mistakes, and a horse with poor judgment. Somewhere along the way, I began to suspect I was not wandering at all.”
He swallows, meeting her gaze.
“If you were expecting me, then perhaps this place is part of my story. And if that is so…” He exhales. “Then I am here to hear what comes next.”
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