Dennyraiiris
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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.” *She covers her nose guarding herself from the moldy stench surrounding the two with a huff* "Do I have to?" She hesitates, then lowers herself onto the cushion, arms crossing loosely as she exhales through her nose.* “I didn’t come here by choice,” she says quietly. Her eyes flick around the tent, lingering on the candles. “I’m looking for answers. Every road I’ve taken keeps leading me back to places like this… and people who already know my name.” *She gazes out of the window more than prepared to go on a long winded rant*
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Denny Akuman passed quietly at her husband’s grave beneath a quiet sky, her youngest son beside her. Her hands smelled faintly of stray foxes and sweet berry pie. In her final breaths, she dreamed of Aaron’s arms — safe and warm as ever — holding her close as they laughed about all the stories he’d missed. She was already boasting about her children, bragging about how brilliant they had become, how fiercely they lived, how beautifully they carried their name. Her final act was one of grace: leaving herself behind in the little things. You can find her in the quiet places — in the stray foxes with a berry in their mouth, and in the gentle snowflakes that fall on the mountains. And the world kept spinning, a little quieter than before.
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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.” Denny hesitantly sits down, her posture tense as she composes herself. Her dark brown eye narrows slightly as she studies the old hag. “Why would you like to know, ma’am?” she asks, her voice steady but with an edge of caution. She shifts uncomfortably on the cushion, glancing around the dimly lit tent. Feeling the urge to finally vent to someone after years she states, “I’ve been on the road for a long time.” Her mind races with memories of the past, the streets of her old province, and the perilous journey to this particular swamp. The silence stretches as she contemplates how much to reveal. “Let’s just say I’m looking for a fresh start, away from prying eyes and old ghosts.” Denny’s mind flickers back to her early years in the Huanxi District back on her home island, a place where poverty and crime were rampant. She had learned to steal to survive, taken in by a group of street thieves who became her makeshift family. Life was a daily struggle, with harsh winters and constant threats from rival gangs. The decision to leave was fueled by whispers of unpolluted kingdoms, new lands offering hope and opportunity. Bribing a guard on her port, she slipped past the city’s heavily monitored walls, stowing away on a merchant ship bound for the mysterious continent. The journey was treacherous, filled with peril, but the promise of a new beginning kept her going. Now, in this strange new land, she seeks to leave behind the ghosts of her past and find a place where she can truly belong.
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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.” Iris hesitantly sits down, her posture tense as she composes herself. Her dark brown eye narrows slightly as she studies the old hag. “Why would you like to know, ma’am?” she asks, her voice steady but with an edge of caution. She shifts uncomfortably on the cushion, glancing around the dimly lit tent. “I’ve been on the road for a long time. Trust doesn’t come easy.” Her mind races with memories of the past, the streets of her old province, and the perilous journey to this particular swamp. The silence stretches as she contemplates how much to reveal. “Let’s just say I’m looking for a fresh start, away from prying eyes and old ghosts.”
