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?))
Elyson pauses at the threshold of the tent, eyes narrowing as he takes in the suspended candles casting flickering shadows over the cramped space. He moves with quiet, deliberate steps, his robes barely rustling over the damp ground as he approaches the cushion. There’s no surprise on his face when the old hag acknowledges him—only a faint tightening of his pale blue eyes, the ghost of a secret knowledge that passes across his expression before it smooths into composed indifference.
“Expecting me, were you?” he asks softly, his voice low and almost melodic, carrying a hint of skepticism. He does not sit immediately but instead studies the woman for a moment longer, as if weighing the weight of her invitation. Then, with an elegant gesture, he lowers himself onto the cushion, moving as if he has all the time in the world. His posture remains upright, careful and poised, never fully at ease.
“My story, you say?” Elyson's lips curl ever so slightly, a hint of a wry smile that vanishes as quickly as it appeared. He intertwines his gloved fingers, resting them on his knees. “Stories are for those who wish to reveal more than they intend. I’d rather speak of purpose... and I have no doubt you already know mine.” His gaze meets hers steadily, unflinching, holding a challenge in his pale blue eyes.
He tilts his head, the pendant of Nyctos shifting subtly against his chest. “But if you wish to play this game—then tell me, crone. What have you seen in those shadows you claim to know so well? What part of my story brings you such certainty?” His voice is calm, every word measured and precise, hinting at an underlying tension, an expectation that whatever is said next will matter more than the candles' soft glow in the cold, damp air.
Elyson’s pale blue eyes glimmer in the candlelight, his gaze unflinching as he speaks, his voice a steady, melodic cadence. His words seem measured, as though each one carries the weight of years long buried beneath layers of shadow and power.
“I was born into the Svikari Commune, a cult tethered to the royal family of my homeland,” he begins, his tone distant, almost rehearsed. “My sister and I were raised under the watchful eyes of Eldrion, the elder who guided my early steps in the ways of Nyctos. From the moment I drew breath, it was clear I was chosen—destined to be the one favored by Nyctos, the god of wisdom, shadows, and forbidden knowledge.”
He lets the silence linger for a moment, as though pondering the significance of those early years. “But as a child, I was frail, weak, I suppose I still am- at the least, in the physical department. My sister, far more physical in her pursuits, was.. foolish. It was clear to my family, while she excelled at strength, and brute means, they dreaded the fact that she may be the one to inherit the role of chosen. At the age of ten, the day came when we were to battle for the right to remain in the commune. To prove our worthiness to Nyctos. And as expected, she defeated me easily in combat."
A faint, almost imperceptible smile curls at the corners of his lips, the memory bitter yet strangely proud. “But she made a fatal mistake. She cast out our god- our family. She chose me over them- mistook my kindness as compassion and not as the mercy it truly was. As she walked away from the battle, believing we would flee our home ourselves and make our own name, she failed to realize that I, the rightful heir, the one capable of carrying Nyctos's hope and visions, would never turn to.. becoming a heretic- forsaking what he's given us. With my blade, I struck her down, solidifying my place as worthy to become Nyctos's chosen. I was taken under Eldrion's wing once more, and granted the final piece of my learning; I was taught to resurrect her, to bend death to my will, and in that moment, I took the final steps into necromancy.”
He pauses, his eyes growing distant as the past unfolds before him, each memory weighed with purpose. “From that day on, I was the chosen of Nyctos, my birthright solidified. The final stage of my apprenticeship began, and soon, my gaze turned to Prince Cadfael—my lover. He proposed marriage to me, to run off into the sunset and abandon his birthright, but I had other plans. In the midst of that moment, when he embraced me, I betrayed him. I struck him down and enslaved him, binding him as my thrall, Carmine.” His voice quivers, as if perhaps, there is a bit of regret- but it's quickly washed away.
Elyson’s expression remains composed, but there’s an unsettling calmness to his words, as if he is recounting a story that no longer affects him. “With Carmine’s martial prowess at my side, I tasked him with eliminating the rest of the royal family, securing my cult’s control over the kingdom. I rose to power, beloved by Nyctos, the god whose wisdom I now wield.”
His voice darkens as he leans forward slightly, eyes gleaming. “And when I had learned all there was to know, Nyctos commanded me to spread his influence, to grow his power. I moved beyond my homeland, spreading my reach, rising above all others.”
He sits back, his gaze unyielding, as if challenging the hag to understand the weight of his words. “And now, here I stand here, adapting to the world around me, learning how to be more... approachable. The seeds are planted. Soon, they will grow.” His eyes lock onto hers. “You asked for my story. But this is only the beginning. My purpose is far from finished.”
