Alexa44

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?)) At the hag's request, Alerys pauses, her eyes flickering momentarily to the tent's entrance (the reflex of one who has learnt never to turn her back on an exit). Inside, the air is dense and heavy, with a subtle taste of moss and wax in every breath. She kneels slowly. A handful of fine sand, its pale grains glinting slightly in the candlelight, is pulled out of a little pouch at her belt by her hand. She uses a deliberate, almost ritualistic manner to spread it around the wet floor. She draws an errant circle with two fingers. She follows a little figure inside it, followed by a larger one that looms over it. A single line connects them, then snaps halfway through with a sharp flick of her wrist, scattering the sand like broken glass. For a moment, she just stares at what she’s made... then presses her palm flat into the centre, smearing it all away. The act seems deliberate, final. When she finally looks up at the old woman, her silver eyes glimmer in the candlelight. She doesn’t speak (can’t even if she wanted to) but the message in her expression is clear enough: she’s not here to explain her past. Only to decide what comes next.

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?)) Alexa, her boots covered with swamp muck, steps into the dimly lit tent. with a hand resting on the hilt of her trusty blade. She lowers her hood, revealing a face weathered by harsh elements. Her voice, tinged with the rough brogue of her Highlander upbringing, resonates in the stifling air. "Aye, this place is darker than the icy tundra where I was raised," she replies. "I come from the snowy wastelands, a place where the biting winds and unforgiving blizzards are your only companions. Me family knew naught but struggle, and it was there that I learned the ways of survival, for a blade was the only inheritance I had." Taking a seat on the offered cushion, Alexa continues, "The snow-covered mountains, they taught me strength, and the endless nights guarding our rugged homestead, they taught me vigilance. When I came of age, I took up the sword and became a mercenary, for it seemed the only path to a life beyond mere survival. It was the only way to make enough coin to provide for what remained of me family, who had been cruelly slaughtered by bandits." Leaning forward, her gaze locked with the hag's, she states, "Now, I've journeyed to this godforsaken town, a place unlike any I've seen before. The reasons are me own, but it seems fate has guided me here." Alexa falls silent, awaiting the hag's response.