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?))
Azazel's body cracked down onto the cushion, his legs crossing one over the other as he blinked and scoffed "If you know me, what else would you need, you know my story, do you not?" His breath wheezing with his body, oozing with confidence as he glared into the Hag's eyes, expecting her to know what he knows, have seen what he's seen, it's going to be a nightmare if not, his teeth flashing at the mere thought of explaining anything to someone such as her, an unusual 'ker indeed certainly it's the eyes that give it away? "I wish not to explain if you do not know, I want to rid myself from here as swiftly as possible." Azazel's foot rapidly tapped against the flooring, paying attention to every twinge of a movement she makes, he's on edge, he's never not, people have removed him before, he doesn't need to be removed once more, not without his conscious mind being able to make that decision, he'll fight his way through if not. Azazel's story is quite long, being kicked out of his family due to his high aspirations as a business, that's his main point and key, business. Every waking moment he collects and gathers what he can, so he can sell to the populace, all in the hopes to gather popularity, for all will cheer the name Azazel... right? That is what Azazel hopes, but for now, he's stuck in the low life, struggling amongst the poor, the weary and now in front of a hag.
Azazel cleared his throat, his breathing raspy to match the deep burns on his face, oh the memories with the burns. A failed solo adventure he was on, the poor soul we call Azazel traveled along the same path as a merchant, the key to earning some real money, and gathering some real trinkets. His step was swift, efficient, but the merchant was much quicker than he, with a slash and a crack, a lamp burst the rogue on fire, with the burns as a permanent reminder. His fingers and nails are slender and thin, apt for lockpicking and snatching, to match alongside his slender and unique build. A lack of food and a lack of a working routine has led to Azazel's body diminishing to a frail 6'4, only 160 pounds, barely above a stable weight.
Azazel's clothes were not his either, a helpless soul's giving.. by force, all things Azazel gathers has been gathered through force, for that's all he knows, all he can gather, his face was cruel, his body was that of permanent reminder of his failed adventures, his failed hopes, his failed NEEDS. His permanent yearning for fame as only knocked him lower, lower and lower. A rouge he is, a rogue he'll be, for that is his destiny.
