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.”
Rhinn stepped forward, his boots sinking into the damp, yielding earth beneath the tent. The air was thick with the scent of wax, wet moss, and something older—something rotten. Shadows twisted unnaturally along the walls as the candlelight flickered, distorting the space around him. He did not kneel right away. His amber eyes, sharp and unreadable, flickered over the hag’s face, measuring the weight of her silence.
“Expecting me?” His voice was low, rough—edged with something between amusement and warning. He let the quiet stretch, the firelight shifting across his angular features. Then, with a slow exhale through his nose, he lowered himself—not in surrender, but with the controlled ease of a man who never truly lets his guard down.
“I came here on the last words of a dying man.” The words hung in the air like a lingering specter. He let the silence settle before continuing. “He spoke of a land called Aevos. Said it was where he hailed from.” His fingers ghosted over the hilt of his sword—a habit, nothing more, though the implication was clear. “Said you could show me the way.”
The wind pressed against the fabric of the tent, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and distant fire. The wooden beams groaned under the weight of age and rot. Somewhere beyond, water dripped—a slow, steady rhythm, like the ticking of something unseen.
Rhinn leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “I was once a man with purpose. A banner to follow. A name that meant something.” His jaw tightened. “That man is gone.”
He let out a slow breath, his fingers tapping idly against the hilt of his sword. “I’ve walked through the ruins of dead kingdoms, stepped over bones long forgotten, and faced beasts that wear the skin of men.” His voice was calm, but there was something frayed at the edges—something worn thin. “I know better than to put my faith in fate. The night is long, and most who seek answers do not live to see the morning.”
The hag let out a quiet, knowing chuckle, the sound like dry leaves scraping against stone. Her fingers traced lazy circles over the fabric of her robes, as if unraveling unseen threads. “A hunter, then,” she mused, tilting her head. “But even hunters must ask—when the night stretches on without end, do they chase the beast... or become it?”
Rhinn tilted his head slightly, the candlelight catching in his amber eyes, turning them molten. “That’s what I intend to find out.”
