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.”
John stands there a long moment before lowering himself onto the cushion—slowly, like he’s doing the tent a favor by not breaking it.
His thick, leathery hands rest on his knees. The floating candlelight catches the shine of his extravagant rings and the sharp lines of his shaved head.
— “You’ve been expectin’ me?” he mutters. “Then you know I didn’t crawl out of this swamp.”
He exhales through his nose.
— “I was born where men worked till their hands split and bled. Learned early that if you’re not the strongest in the room, you’re the one scrubbing the floor. So I got strong.” His jaw tightens. “Stronger than any of ‘em.”
“They called me ‘The Sload.’ Said I was built like one. Thick. Ugly. Hard to kill.” A humorless smirk flickers. “I kept the name. Seemed to scare people.”
He leans forward slightly.
— “Worked docks. Broke bones. Collected debts. Wore better clothes than the men who paid me, just to remind ‘em I could.”
His eyes narrow at the hag. “Folks don’t like me much. I don’t lose sleep over it.”
He'd pause.
— “So there’s your story, witch. A man who got tired of being stepped on—and made sure it never happened again.” He tilts his head. “Now tell me why you’ve been waitin’.”
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