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?))
The candles flickered, casting a dim, eerie glow across the tent as he stepped inside, his presence almost spectral. The air seemed to grow heavier with each step he took, his pale, white hair shimmering faintly in the low light, stark against the dark fabric of his cloak. His clothing—tattered grey and black—clung to his lithe form, moving with him like shadows in the night. His red eyes, glowing with a predatory calm, met the hag’s gaze, unflinching. The stench of the swamp seemed to fall away in his wake, as though the air itself recognized the danger in his every move.
Her words barely stirred him, for he knew the weight of such expectations. He had felt it before—the knowing in others' eyes, the awareness that he was not merely a wanderer in this world, but a force of it.
He did not sit immediately. His posture was perfect, composed and deliberate, a dark figure standing as if the very shadows bent to his will.
"I did not come here by choice," he began, his voice calm, though it carried a chill that sent a shiver through the tent. "I have no need for this town, nor its secrets. But fate, as it tends to do, has guided me here."
