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?))
I stand resolute, defying the comfort of a chair, as if the very act of sitting would betray my resolve.
The candlelight clings to my black-and-purple armor, casting an ethereal glow on the runes that pulse with a life of their own.
“You ask for my story,” I say, my voice a blend of resignation and defiance. “Every scar and rune on this armor tells a tale of battles fought and choices made.”
I flex my gauntlet, the unyielding metal resisting, a reminder of the battles that have hardened both it and me.
“It won’t come off. Not after what it’s witnessed.” My jaw tightens. "It keeps me sharp, a constant reminder of my purpose.
With a steely gaze, I finally look up at her, ready to share the burden of my tale.
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