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?))
Vesryn stepped into the tent, ducking slightly as the flap fell closed behind him. His eyes flicked over the floating candles, then to the old woman watching him. He didn’t speak right away—just moved to the cushion and sat, resting his hands on his knees.
His boots left faint marks in the damp ground beneath him, the smell of wet moss still clinging to his clothes.
“Vesryn,” he said simply. “Vesryn Miradithas.”
He looked at her for a moment, quiet
“I left because everything started feeling… hollow. Like I was just repeating my day over and over.” His brow furrowed, just a little. “They called it purpose, but it felt more like a cage.
Now I’m trying to figure out what else there is.”
His voice stayed level, almost careful. “If you were really expecting me, I guess you know more than I do.”
