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?))

Draevin sank onto the cushion, letting the flickering candlelight carve shadows across his face. The smell of rotted wood and wet moss clung to him, but he barely noticed. His eyes swept the tent, noting the weak points in the structure, the way shadows gathered near the corners. He had walked through darker places, smelled stranger fears, felt sharper pain.

“My name is Draevin,” he said quietly, letting the words settle as his gaze drifted to the low-hanging candles, tracking their sway in the air currents. “I was born in New Malinor. My father fell in the elven war before I could even know him. My mother… she died giving me life. I was left alone, and the fighter’s guild of Darkhaven took me in. I grew up among their children, taught to fight, to survive, to harden myself against the world. It was harsh… but necessary.”

He touched the edge of the red cowl draped over his shoulders — Elenoria’s cowl. A ghost of a smile flickered and died. “There was someone I loved. Elenoria. She trained with me, laughed with me, fought with me. She wore red… bright and fearless. We were inseparable. When I turned sixteen, because I am a dark elf, the guild selected me for their assassins’ program. Elenoria joined me. We learned to strike unseen, to move in shadow, to kill without hesitation. Together, we were unstoppable. Until San’Orka.”

His jaw tightened, and his eyes flicked to the corners of the tent again, noting every shadow, every movement. “A mission went wrong. A high elf diplomat… she was taken from me by a high elf commander. I survived. Barely. And I was captured.”

He lifted his left forearm, showing the dark sigil branded into his skin. His gaze caught the faint glint of a candle flame on the mark. “The orcs… they call it punishment. I call it survival. The prison was a pit of giants, each stronger and taller than me. But weakness is a choice, and I refused to die. I watched them fight. I studied them. I learned their strengths… and their flaws. I forged a new way to fight — Draethil. Precision over power, leverage over brute force. It saved me. And it will serve me still.”

His eyes shifted again, catching a slight draft from the tent’s opening. “I did not leave everyone behind. There was Poppin, a halfling, smaller than me in every way. I trained him in Draethil, but I knew he was untested, unready… so I went back. I slipped past the guards under cover of night, and I brought him out. I protect those who matter — even if it is only one.”

He let his senses linger on the tent: the uneven floorboards, the weak seams, the flicker of shadows over the candles. “Now… I walk alone. I seek a place where I can hide in plain sight, gather information, sharpen my skills, and arm myself. And one day — the day will come — the high elf commander who stole her from me will answer for what he did. Until then… I survive. I watch. I wait. I prepare.”

He adjusted the red cowl across his shoulders and met her gaze steadily, noting the subtle rise of her chest, the way her eyes tracked his hands. “That is my story. A life forged in shadow… in death… and in loss.”