houndrats

You’ve just arrived in a swampy, dim town. As you look around, your gaze is met with shacks and cabins. It smells of rotted wood and wet moss. You 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?))

The hag was met with a questioning gaze. Really? A hag . . My, what a day, hm? Ah, but oh well. He was a soul with a lot to give. A word or two never hurt anyone. "Always a pleasure to see a kind face!" the man opened with a warm, friendly tone, taking his seat. You do not need to tell him twice! As he settled, long braids rested like serpents in his lap, their beat-up metal jewelry creating small chimes before they fell silent. "My story? Hmm . ."

There was a brief pause, Cormac has a relatively simple past. So . . where would one begin? I suppose where it all does. . 

"Well, where do we all begin? . ." a pause, again. The fiery redhead was trailing off often, wasn't he? "I do not come from noble birth, nor any birth worth mentionin', some would say." The man's words were strangely cheery. An ember in the darkness, he was. Finding himself rather comfortable in this . . wonderful tent, he brought his arms forward, interlocking his fingers with a drawn-out stretch. "I have no grand past to speak of, but I do have a life worth somethin'. . I grew up poor. Dirt poor. All I had was a funny-shaped stick and my mother."

The words carried through the humid air with a husky tone - perhaps the traveler was road-weary. A light atmosphere trailed him, even now, even in this tent. A few small jokes tore through, as they so often did.

"I started from nothing. Bugger-all! Picked up whatever job I could to aid my mother." A hand rose to one of his braids, lightly brushing the very tips of his fingers over the tightly woven locks. Candlelight reflected on the slight sheen of the hairs. A man with fire for hair. A man incredibly proud. "It's what you have to do, bein' born to . . a lady like my mother. No father to speak of, no last name. Just a boy in a back alley door."

While the poverty described was saddening, knowing he was brought up in such conditions, he spoke with profound fondness. "But there's only so much you can do with odd jobs and cleaning barns and taverns for a livin'. Workin' the day, drinkin' the night." A pause. Cormac, the man with a personality as vibrant and fiery as his hair. Incredibly determined, hopeful against all the world at times, it seemed. "Don't get me wrong! I love a good drink and pretty ladies . . but here I am." 

"I wish to make my mother proud. That is all I want. A good life for me and her," he sighed a long sigh, leaning back on his hands. "And it's about time I make somethin' out of myself."