Kings to the Seventh Generation

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.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Haesteinn's legs suddenly freeze in place, his posture locked against the floor. He throws back a stern stare at the old hag, "Minn Gott- Expecting me?", words muttered with an aura of anger. His scars' and wounds' bloodshot red, ever so recent, have made their presence to the mysterious woman. He crushingly clenched his fist onto the hilt of his great Varangian-axe, engrained with centuries-old runes and markings that reminisces the era of his Waldenian ancestors. "Du... Du will...", he mumbles, moments before raising his weapons up into the air. "DU WILL PAY!", he screams. The flames of unrestrained anger rupture through the tattered tent.