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?))
They hesitate in the doorway, their breath catching as the hag’s gaze locks onto them. The weight of her words—I’ve been expecting you—sends a cold shiver racing down their spine, one that has nothing to do with the curse that already chills their core. Their eyes dart to the flickering candles, the cluttered shelves lined with jars of unidentifiable contents, and then back to the hag, who is watching them with an unsettling mix of curiosity and certainty.
They swallow hard, their fingers twitching beneath the folds of their cloak.
“Oh, uh... expecting me? That’s... well, that’s quite the coincidence,” they mumble, their voice tight and strained. A nervous laugh escapes, unbidden. “You must have me mistaken for someone else. I’m no one of importance. Just passing through.”
Even as they speak, old habits rise unbidden. Their eyes scan the tent’s contents with the sharp precision of someone who’s appraised a thousand goods before. The hag’s trinkets, the array of jars—could those be enchanted? Rare? Worth anything?—but their thoughts twist and falter under the hag’s piercing gaze.
They shift their weight, forcing a smile that doesn’t reach their eyes. “Nice little setup you’ve got here. Very atmospheric. But I really shouldn’t impose—places to be, things to do. You know how it is.”
Without waiting for a response, they shuffle backward toward the tent flap, their movements slow and deliberate, like prey edging away from a predator. “Thanks for, uh, the cushion. Very comfortable. But I should be going.”
As they step into the swampy air outside, the damp chill seems almost comforting compared to the hag’s knowing stare. They don’t look back, their pulse hammering as they mutter under their breath, “Expecting me? Just a coincidence. Just a coincidence...”
And yet, the feeling that her eyes are still on them lingers long after they’ve disappeared into the mist.
Backstory:
Born to a wandering trader and a reclusive elf, they grew up learning the art of negotiation, deceit, and the value of everything. By their 20s, they had carved out a name for themselves in the black markets, trading in rare goods, information, and occasionally dangerous artifacts.
Their downfall came during a deal with a powerful and ruthless merchant guild. They overestimated their ability to manipulate the guild, selling counterfeit wares disguised as magical relics. When the deception was uncovered, they barely escaped with their life, leaving behind their business, wealth, and reputation.
Present Life:
Now, they live in self-imposed exile in the forest, far from prying eyes and vengeful clients. They rarely visit towns, only venturing in to trade small handcrafted goods, herbs, or pelts. Their forest life has sharpened their survival skills but also left them deeply suspicious of others.
