slender yet athletic build
hair long and silvery-blonde,
His eyes are a striking pale violet with hints of silver
dresses with elegance
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 scent of damp earth and decay curls around Athos as he steps into the tent. Candlelight flickers across the worn canvas, reflecting softly in his violet eyes. His posture remains composed, though a faint crease forms between his brows at the hag’s knowing words.
He studies her for a heartbeat—measured, silent—as though weighing truth from trickery.
Then, with the poise of centuries behind him, Athos inclines his head slightly in respect.
“I had not thought my arrival known to any,” he says, voice calm and smooth like water over stone. A hint of cautious curiosity lingers beneath the surface. “Yet if fate has already spoken my name here, I will not ignore its call.”
He moves gracefully to the cushion, lowering himself with deliberate elegance despite the tent’s disheveled state. His cloak pools around him like moonlight on dark water. He sits straight-backed but not tense, hands resting lightly on his knees.
For a moment, Athos glances around—the swaying candlelight, the shadows dancing across ragged fabrics—and then meets the hag’s eyes again.
“My story,” he begins quietly, “is not one I often tell. But if you have truly been waiting for me… then perhaps it is time someone heard it.”
There is a softness to his tone now—wary, but sincere. The air between them grows still, as though even the swamp outside is holding its breath.
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