Weight - 240
Skin - Rough, Calloused
Outfit - Blacksmith Apron, Scorched Leather, Iron Armor
Eyes - Glowing Amber
Hair - Long, Black
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?))
Garran Volbrand ducks beneath the ragged flap of the tent, his boots squelching in the damp earth as he steps inside. The scent of wax and smoke mingles with the rot outside, but he says nothing. The candles flicker, casting molten light across the deep creases of his face.
He stares at the hag in silence for a moment, then lowers himself onto the cushion with a grunt—his iron-clad weight settling like stone.*
“…My story?”
His voice rumbles low, like coal cracking in flame.
“I was born in shadow… not the kind cast by trees or walls—but the shadow of the world itself. Deep, where no breeze stirs and no sun touches. I was a smith’s son. My father taught me the language of fire. My mother… was silence.”
He pauses, eyes distant.
“I shaped gold and iron into blades for men I would never meet, and in turn, the forge shaped me. Years passed, the same heat, the same hammer. Until the earth above quaked, and something—someone—called me upward.”
He leans forward, the glow in his eyes steady.
“I don’t know your name, hag, nor what you see in me. But I’ve walked out of the fire for a reason. If you know what it is… now’s the time to speak it.”
His hand rests on a worn hammer at his hip—not threatening, but ready. Always ready.
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