Zetagames22

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?))

Arthur ducks into the tent, brushing aside the damp canvas as the stink of bog water and burning tallow follows him inside. The floating candles flicker gently overhead, casting a warm but uneasy light. He takes a step in, glancing around, sharp eyes flicking over the cluttered interior. His cloak is still damp from the mist outside, stained at the hem with dark mud.

The hag’s voice draws his gaze, and when she recognizes him, he hesitates—but only for a breath. He sits slowly, legs folding beneath him on the worn cushion, one hand near the small blade tucked at his belt. Old habits die hard.

“Arthur,” he says flatly. “From the gutters of the Lower Ring in Karosgrad, back when the frost bit harder and the guard looked the other way.”

He leans forward slightly, voice low but clear. “I was raised by a fence named Lorn—taught me coin moves faster than loyalty. Spent my youth running ledgers and cutting purse strings for a gang called the Iron Vein. We were small, but smart. Knew which houses to avoid, which lords to charm, and which doors to open after dark.”

He pauses, eyes narrowing.

“But greed eats even the clever. A noble contract. One vault job too many. We were betrayed—set up by one of our own. Name was Shae. Left me bleeding in the snow outside Vasiyev’s manor while the rest were dragged off in chains. Been alone since.”

Arthur lifts the tarnished coin at his neck—a weathered piece marked with an old sigil of luck—and lets it fall.

“Now I drift. Balian, Haense, even the backwoods of Amathea. Doesn’t matter the crown or the crest—they all got rot beneath ‘em. I ain’t lookin’ for glory or gold. Just truth. And maybe a chance to carve my name somewhere it can’t be washed away.”

He eyes her cautiously. “You say you’ve been expecting me? Then I hope you know something worth hearing. I didn’t come through that swamp for riddles.”