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?))
Vervain’s ears twitched at the hag’s words, his eyes narrowed slightly. He stepped forward, his fingers absently brushed the silver locket beneath his tunic—his mother’s last gift.
He didn’t sit. Not yet. Instead, he squared his shoulders and lifted his chin.
"Expecting me? Then you already know I’m not here by choice. But since you’re offering... let’s say I’m testing a theory... They told me this place was where unwanted things get lost. But the storm led me here. To you. So tell me, seer—" He tilted his head, ears pivoted toward the rustling tent flaps. "—did my father pay you to greet me? Or are you the one who’s been whispering in the wind?"
Vervain's tone was light, but his grip tightened on the locket. The storm in his veins hums restless. He’s ready to strike depending on her answer.
