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?))
"I—uh…" he began, his voice rough from the journey. He glanced at the hag, trying to hide his unease, but something about her presence felt… knowing, too knowing. "I didn’t think anyone would be expecting me. I was just looking for answers. Something’s wrong around here, and I think I might be able to help... or at least try to."
He stepped into the tent, ducking beneath the sagging fabric as the musty smell of rotted wood clung to him. The flickering candlelight cast long, jittery shadows, and the hag’s eyes gleamed from the darkness like she’d been waiting for him longer than he’d been alive.
"I—uh…" he began again, his voice still coarse. He glanced at the hag, his unease barely concealed beneath a thin veneer of resolve. "I didn’t think anyone would be expecting me. I was just looking for answers. Something’s wrong around here, and I think I might be able to help... or at least try to."
He lowered himself onto the cushion she gestured to, the weight of his battered armor pressing into tired muscles. His fingers drifted to the scar along his ribs, tracing the jagged line like it might ground him in the present. “I used to be a villager—simple life, simpler problems. Then the raiders came, and what they didn’t burn, they took.” He glanced around the tent, the flickering flames reflecting in his tired eyes. “So I left the ashes behind and went looking for answers… for power.” His gaze snapped back to hers, hardening. “But power doesn’t fix the past, does it?”
