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?))
The swamp is quiet, save for the buzzing of unseen things and the slow creak of the shacks around her. Fressa Wildbriar breathes in deeply as she steps into the hag’s tent, the scent of wet moss and wax thick in her throat. When the old woman beckons her to sit, she hesitates only a moment before lowering herself onto the worn cushion.
“My story?” Fressa says, her voice steady but low. “It began under brighter leaves than these.”
Fressa was born in Elderbloom Glen, a hidden forest valley where the trees grew so thick their roots braided above the ground. Her people—forest dwarves of the Wildbriar line—lived in harmony with the woodland, crafting tools from fallen limbs and drawing metal only from veins the earth willingly revealed. The Wildbriars were guardians of balance, keepers of old pacts with the spirits that dwelled beneath root and stone.
Fressa’s mother, Hildra, was the clan’s Verdant Speaker—a druid who could commune with the forest’s heart. Her father, Torren, was a herbalist and carver, known for his steady hands and quiet laughter. Fressa grew up running through the underbrush, barefoot and bold, chasing wisps of light that danced between the trees. She was always drawn to the strange corners of the glen, where the air shimmered with magic older than memory.
But when Fressa was fifteen, something changed. The forest began to sicken. A gray fungus crept along the roots, and the rivers turned murky. Animals grew restless. Hildra performed every rite she knew, but the blight only deepened. Then came the whispers—voices from the mists calling Fressa by name. They promised healing. They promised power.
One night, she followed those whispers into the deep woods… and returned alone. Her mother was gone, vanished into the fog. Her father refused to speak of that night, his eyes hollow with grief.
For five years, Fressa searched. She learned the craft of herbs and druidic charms, wandering from forest to fen, chasing every rumor of mists that moved with intent. Each step drew her farther from home, and closer to the swamplands that haunted her dreams.
Now, seated before the hag, Fressa meets the woman’s gaze. The candlelight flickers in her blue eyes.
“I came because I was called,” she admits. “The same voice that took my mother brought me here.”
The hag smiles—a thin, knowing curve.
“Ah,” she croons. “So the forest sent another Wildbriar. The roots remember what was taken. But child… do you?”
The tent grows still. The air thickens, heavy with secrets long buried beneath moss and mud.
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