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.”
Fenris hesitates at the flap of the tent, the faint scent of burnt herbs coiling into his nostrils. The candlelight flickers across his obsidian skin, catching the faint glint of the curved dagger at his hip. He lowers his hood, revealing angular features and eyes like molten amber—eyes that seem to weigh the hag as she does him.
He says nothing at first, only studies her—her tangled hair, her weathered hands, the smoke-stained sigils painted on the tent walls. Then, finally, his voice cuts through the heavy air—low, steady, with a trace of weariness. "Stories are dangerous things to trade in a place like this."
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