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.”
Orin hesitates at the entrance, his broad shoulders brushing the flaps of the sagging tent as he ducks inside. The scent of mildew and candle smoke clings to the air, reminding him of abandoned barracks and bloodied infirmaries. His boots squelch against the damp ground beneath the rug, but he doesn’t flinch. He meets the hag’s gaze with the wariness of a man who’s seen too much and trusts too little. At her recognition, his brow furrows. "Expecting me? That never bodes well." Without a word, he lowers himself onto the cushion with a stiff grunt, metal groaning slightly from the worn plates still clinging to his frame.
“I didn’t come for stories” he says, voice low and gravelly. “But I’ve got a few. Most end in blood and regrets.” His eyes drift to the flickering candles. One dances violently in a gust that never came.
“You want the truth? I came here for work. Food. A roof for my boy. If fate dragged me here for something else…” He locks eyes with her again, jaw clenched.
“Then spit it out, hag. I’ve no time for riddles.”
“…and less patience for games” he adds, fingers drumming once against his knee before stilling.
The leather of his gloves creaks as his fists tighten, a warning more than a threat. “Say what you mean, or I walk out that door and never look back.”
