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?))

Sarorim ducks into the tent, shaking a few droplets of swamp water from her hair. The smell hits her first, rotted wood and moss but she grins anyway.

“Well, this is cozy,” she says lightly, eyes glinting as they wander over the hovering candles. “You’ve got style, I’ll give you that.”

When the hag speaks, Sarorim quirks an eyebrow. “Expecting me, huh? That’s either fate, or you’re just real good at guessing who’s dumb enough to wander into cursed bog towns.”

She drops onto the cushion without hesitation, armor creaking softly. “Name’s Sarorim. Paladin, technically—though I’m not much for sermons or shiny temples. I follow where the wind pushes and the trouble brews.”

A small, lopsided smile forms on her lips.

“I was born in a place that didn’t really want to claim me. Little river town, bunch of humans who pretended not to see the orc in my jaw. My mother was a healer — soft-spoken, stubborn, the kind of woman who could make soup out of nothing and still feed half the street. My father…” She huffs a breath. “He was around for about five minutes. Orc raiding band, hired blades, whatever you wanna call ’em. He left. Or died. Or chose something else. Point is: he wasn’t there.”

She rolls her shoulders like she’s shaking off an old bruise.

“Growing up, I was the ‘almost.’ Almost welcome. Almost trusted. Kids could play with me, but not in the house. I could help in the market, but not in the sanctuary. You know the type of town — real pious, real polite about their prejudice.”

Her eyes flick up to the hovering candles. “Then came a bad spring. Flood, fever, the kind that takes the old and the tired first. My mother worked herself to bones and breath… and it still took her. Temple clerics came late. ‘The gods will it,’ they said.”

Sarorim’s tusked smile returns, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “That was the day I stopped believing the gods keep score.”

“I joined the holy order after that — not because I was devout, but because I wanted strength. I wanted to make sure the next time something came for people I cared about, I could hit it back. The paladins liked my swing and didn’t ask too many questions.

I took the oaths that mattered and ignored the ones that didn’t. Turns out I’m better at protecting than obeying.”

She leans forward, voice warmer again. “So now I go where I’m needed. Or where I decide I’m needed. I help folk like my mother — small, overlooked, the ones no temple sends a hero for. And sometimes,” she grins, “I help people who don’t deserve it yet. ‘Cause someone helped me when I didn’t.”