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.”
My story begins not in this mire, but beneath the silver canopy of the moonwood, where whispers of prophecy ride the wind. I was born under a blood eclipse, marked by a sigil that no scholar could decipher. For years, I wandered—chased by shadows that wear familiar faces, guided only by dreams stitched with riddles.
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