qxp_

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.”
 

The old Highlander lowers himself onto the cushion with a slow, steady grunt, brushing swamp mud from his boots. His weathered hands rest on his knees, and his blue eyes watch the hag with the patience of a man who’s seen far too much.

“Name’s Dòmhnall, as you might know” he says, his voice roughened by age, liquor & his old pipe. “I’ve lived through fifty-six winters, most of ’em with iron in hand. Fought wars that broke kingdoms, lost more kin than I care to count, and walked many many miles.” “I’m not here for riddles or soft words,” Dòmhnall says, voice low but unwavering.

“I’ve walked too far and fought too long for games. If you truly expected me, then speak plain. Tell me why I’m here, and what danger stirs in these lands.”