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?))
His name… was something, he thought. Once, he had known it clearly. It had been strong, full of purpose. But now, it slipped through his fingers like water. Sir… Aedan? No, that didn’t feel right. Perhaps Malagauss? It was hard to remember anything.
The hag’s sharp eyes glinted in the dim light of her candlelit tent. She watched him, studying every scar, every shadow on his hollow body. Tell me—what else has slipped through your grasp?”
“I… I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice low and broken. “I think I was a knight once.”
Her eyebrows rose, and she leaned forward, the flickering light casting shadows across her lined face. “A knight, hmm? How fascinating. What makes you think so?”
“There are flashes,” he said, his words halting. “A sword… a crest… a banner. And the weight of metal in my hand. But it’s all fractured. Broken. Like a puzzle I can’t piece together.”
“Fragments can speak volumes the pieces may be scattered, but they are never lost. Go on—what else do you remember?”
He lowered his gaze, staring into the uneven surface of the floor. “A fire,” he said quietly. “That much I’m sure of.”
The hag’s eyes sharpened, and she tilted her head. “A fire?” she echoed, her voice laced with curiosity. “Not an ordinary one, I’d wager.”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “It wasn’t natural. It felt… alive. Or cursed.” He swallowed hard, his throat tightening. “It destroyed everything. My name. My purpose. My life.”
