Orin hesitates at the entrance, his broad shoulders brushing the flaps of the sagging tent as he ducks inside. The scent of mildew and candle smoke clings to the air, reminding him of abandoned barracks and bloodied infirmaries. His boots squelch against the damp ground beneath the rug, but he doesn’t flinch. He meets the hag’s gaze with the wariness of a man who’s seen too much and trusts too little. At her recognition, his brow furrows. Expecting me? That never bodes well. Without a word, he lowers himself onto the cushion with a stiff grunt, metal groaning slightly from the worn plates still clinging to his frame.
“I didn’t come for stories,” he says, voice low and gravelly. “But I’ve got a few. Most end in blood and regrets.”
His eyes drift to the flickering candles. One dances violently in a gust that never came.
“You want the truth? I came here for work. Food. A roof for my boy. If fate dragged me here for something else…”
he locks eyes with her again, jaw clenched
“Then spit it out, hag. I’ve no time for riddles.
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