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?))
I pause at the tent’s entrance, mud clinging to my slides, the damp air seeping into the thin fabric of my shirt. The candles’ glow reflects off the water-dark floor as I step inside, tugging absently at my shorts before lowering myself onto the cushion. Simple clothes, practical for travel, but I sit with care, spine straight, habits harder to shed than titles.
“Expectation is a dangerous thing,” I say evenly, meeting her gaze without flinching.
“I’m not dressed for ceremony or show. Never cared much for it. I’ve always believed words should carry the weight, not silk, steel or opulent jewelry that can distract and lead to consequences that benefit no one.” My eyes drift briefly around the tent, taking in the rot, the smoke, the quiet. “I’ve spent years settling disputes, smoothing over conflicts that others were too proud to end themselves. Listening more than speaking. Choosing restraint. But lately, restraint hasn’t been enough. There are questions no council will answer and paths that polite society refuses to acknowledge. Every lead I followed pointed me here, to this town everyone avoids, to you. With the hope of finding a sense of belonging.”
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