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 traveler hesitated, their boots sinking slightly into the damp earth as they stepped deeper into the tent. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows on the patched fabric walls, making the old hag’s gnarled features seem even more otherworldly.
They pulled back their hood, revealing tangled auburn hair and sharp, weary eyes. “Expecting me, were you?” they muttered, brushing swamp mist from their cloak before lowering themselves onto the cushion. “I doubt that. Even I didn’t know I’d end up here.”
The hag let out a low chuckle, the kind that slithered between the ribs and made the heart quicken. She leaned forward, her milky eyes narrowing. “Fate is a funny thing, child. It leads even the lost straight to my door.”
The traveler exhaled, glancing at the flickering candles as if searching for answers in their wavering flames. “Fine,” they said. “You want a story? Here’s one.” They leaned in, voice lowering like a whisper over still waters. “Once, there was a fool who thought they could outrun their past. But the past is a shadow, and shadows never tire.”
The hag nodded slowly, fingers tapping against the worn wooden table between them. “And what does this fool seek now? Redemption? Revenge?”
The traveler hesitated. “Answers.”
The hag’s lips curled into a knowing smile. “Then you’ve come to the right place… but answers have a price.”
"I was never born a prince nor a warrior, nor anyone worth remembering. Just another orphan left to the dirt, another nameless child swallowed by the gutters of a world that never looked back," they spoke toward the hag, their voice steady despite the weight of their words.
The old woman’s milky eyes did not waver. She simply listened, the flickering candlelight casting strange shadows across her gnarled face.
"The only thing I know of my past is this," they continued. "I woke up one day in the back of a dying blacksmith’s shop, barely more than a child, with nothing but the clothes on my back and an empty stomach. Galdric, the old smith, let me stay, but not out of kindness." A small, humorless smile flickered at their lips. "'If you can lift a hammer, you can eat,' he had said, tossing me a set of tongs and pointing to the forge."
The hag’s fingers tapped rhythmically against the wooden table, waiting.
"I learned quickly," they said, exhaling. "Hunger is the best teacher."
The fire crackled, but the hag remained silent, inviting them to go on.
"Grey Hollow was no place for dreamers. A village of broken things—broken homes, broken people, broken futures. I was no different. No family. No history. No name that mattered. People called me ‘boy’ or ‘kid’ if they called me anything at all. I worked the forge in silence, unseen, unnoticed." Their gaze flickered toward the candlelight, watching the wax drip down the sides. "And that was fine."
"But something inside you was never satisfied." The hag’s voice was dry, brittle as old parchment.
Their jaw tightened slightly. "No," they admitted.
Outside, the wind howled through the gaps in the tent, but inside, the air was still.
"Galdric died one winter. His body too weak to fight the cold." Their voice lowered. "No one mourned him. I barely had time to bury him before the landlord came knocking, claiming the shop for himself."
The hag tilted her head slightly, watching them closely.
"So I left." Their fingers curled into their palms. "No one stopped me. No one asked where I was going. Because to them, I was no one."
"And yet you are here," the hag murmured, amusement flickering in her voice.
They met her gaze. "And yet I am here."
She studied them for a long moment, then smiled, slow and knowing. "Perhaps the world does not decide who is forgotten." She leaned forward slightly. "Perhaps we do."
The firelight danced between them.
And for the first time in their life, someone listened.
And maybe they were right.
But deep down, I can’t shake the feeling that once—long ago—I was someone.
No one stopped me. No one asked where I was going. Because to them, I was no one.
