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?))
He ducks into the tent, his large frame nearly tearing the worn fabric as he pushes past the entrance. The air reeks of dampness and decay, a smell that would turn most stomachs, but he’s used to it. Places like this, with their rot and ruin, feel like home in a way—reminding him of the battlefields he once walked, where death clung to every breath.
As his eyes adjust to the dim candlelight, he spots her at the back of the tent. The hag. Small and hunched over, barely a figure worth noting. She sits there like she’s something important, but to him, she’s just another weakling in a world full of them. His lip curls slightly in disgust as he takes a step forward. This swamp, these people—none of it means anything to him. He’s only here for one reason.
“So, you’ve been expecting me?” His voice is a low growl, rough and deep, each word heavy with the weight of his power. He steps closer, looming over the old woman, his muscles tense under his battle-worn skin. His tusks catch the flickering candlelight, casting long shadows that only make him seem more menacing. The battles he’s fought, the lives he’s taken—it’s all there in his posture, in the way he moves. He remembers his home, the blood moon, where the ground was littered with the bones of the weak. Strength was all that mattered, and he had proven himself again and again.
He doesn’t bother sitting when she gestures to the cushion. He’s not here for comfort. Instead, he leans in, voice sharp and threatening. “Good. Means you already know why I’m here. Domination. Destruction. Blood.” His heart pounds with the thrill of it, the promise of more to conquer, more worlds to bring under his control. The blood moon had been his proving ground, a place where only the strong survived, and now he was bringing that same fire to this miserable place.
He stays standing, towering over her, a snarl playing at the edge of his mouth. “I come from the blood moon,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “Where the ground is soaked with the bones of the fallen. Strength is all that matters, and I am the strongest.”
There’s no question in his mind about that. He’s lived his life by that rule, and he’s never been beaten. That’s why he’s here, after all—to extend his rule, to take what he wants. The hag better know that, better know what he’s capable of, because he’s not in the mood for games.
“Now,” he says, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, “if you’ve really been waiting for me, you better have something useful to say. What do you see in my future? Speak, or I’ll tear this place apart with my bare hands.”
There’s a tension in the air now, the candles flickering as if they sense the storm brewing inside him. Part of him is curious, wondering if this old crone actually knows something—if she’s seen something he hasn’t. He doesn’t believe in fate, but if there’s anything out there he hasn’t conquered yet, he’s going to find it. And he’s going to break it.
