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?))

Example: (delete this) 

 

Lyra hesitates only a moment before stepping fully inside, the damp air clinging to her skin like a second cloak. She lowers her hood, silver-white hair streaked with purple and pale blue catching the candlelight as she moves. The fabric of her coat creaks softly as she sits on the offered cushion, posture guarded but respectful.

Her galaxy purple eyes lift to meet the hag’s gaze—steady, searching, but wary.

“I don’t believe in fate,” Lyra begins quietly, her voice calm yet edged with something feral beneath it. “But it keeps believing in me.”

She exhales through her nose, the scent of moss and rot stirring old instincts.
“I was born under a full moon that never quite set. Raised between blood and silence. I hunt what others fear… and sometimes, what they worship.” A faint pause. “Wolf by curse. Human by choice.”

Her fingers flex at her sides, calloused, scarred.
“I’ve crossed cities, forests, and graves following whispers that led me here. Nightmares of a swamp that breathes. Of candles that float. Of a woman who knew my name before I spoke it.”

Lyra leans forward slightly.
“Something is waking in this town. Something tied to me—whether I want it or not. I’m here for answers.” Her gaze sharpens. “And you,” she adds softly, “are the first truth I’ve found.”

She settles back, unblinking.
“So now you have my story,” Lyra says. “Tell me why you were expecting me.”