Chunky

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?)) He steps into the tent, his cloak draped comfortably around his shoulders. The first thing Solomon sees is the collection of floating candles. The warm glow was welcome in comparison to the humid and damp warmth outside. The previously mentioned cloak helped keep him dry, and he shed the thick cloth as he sat on the cushion. The crone's words unnerve him as he's told that she knows him. His young, clean shaven face is bright, almost innocent as he prepares to go into his life's story, with what little experience he had. "Hello," He greets the old woman warmly, despite his obvious tenseness. "-my name is Solomon Saint-Clair. I'm of the High Kingdom of Idunia." His words are softspoken and gentle, but filled with a kind of firmness and conviction. "Following my 16th winter, I undertook a trial of profession in aspiration to become one of the Númenedan. The profession I chose was that of the warrior. For the years that followed, I've honed my skills with a longsword well enough in preparation for the day I can prove my valor in battle." "It's my hope that I can earn my place in this kingdom, so that I may earn my knighthood and pledge myself to one of the Adunic Noble Houses." There's an eagerness and earnestness in his words, telling of how long this goal has plagued his mind. He soon realizes how urgent his words sound, and he explains. "I don't seek titles for their recognition. All I wish is to prove my worth through action. That is where I want to be recognized. Where I want to be validated. My family is of low birth and renown, but they have as much faith in my goal as I do. My mother, my father, and my two younger brothers. It's for this reason I'm dedicated. I'm in search of purpose." His words are long-winded, but they're true. He answers her question more directly. "I've come to this town to further that path. To become a Knight, to own a home, to find companionship. I want my honor to remain intact in my venture, and I want for those who come after to me to look proudly on my works. I want to be a good man."

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?)) He's quiet as he comes into the tent, his gaze washing over the floating candles. The sight alone puts him slightly off balance, which is soon followed up by the hag's recognition of him, despite the two having never met before. Solomon eyes her through the slits of his helmet, knowing better than to question a knowing old hag with candles suspended in the air around her. He sits cross-legged, pulling his helmet off and placing it beside the cushion. The steel he wears on his back is worn, the smell of ash forever stuck to it. A red shoulder cape draped down his arm, slightly tattered. Although his longsword is clean, it is clearly battle tested. These things alone are enough to tell her a story. He's one of the Farfolk, someone who's come from foreign lands and has seen combat for many years. His kind, slightly washed out eyes, bear into her as he begins. Solomon's tone radiates warmth, though his telling of his story is almost mournful. "I come from a life of duty and commitment. I grew up in a town far away from here, and learned about the Daemon of Fate and Conviction, Azdromoth. As early as I could remember I was fed his story by those who'd worshipped him. Their telling of his story, as well as Eresar's was... limited, but I didn't know any better." He pauses, his gauntlet resting on his calf. "I aspired to become one of his knights, to carry out his will despite knowing I would never come to meet him on this plane. That I did. I was once able to wield his flames. I coated my sword with them and smoke rose from my armor whenever I found myself fighting in his name." A soft breath is released as he prepares to continue. With a slightly tight voice, he goes on. "When I turned twenty nine, I found out the rest about him -- filled in the gaps. I learned of his corruption, and no longer did I wish that I had scales on my face." Every word carried out of his mouth is firm, but when he says this next, he finds his next sentence stuck in his throat. Finally, he summons the strength to utter it. "I denounced him." There's a long beat of silence at that. He's unable to look the old hag in the eyes. He wonders if she knew all of this already, if this was to see the limits of what he was willing to reveal. The weight of the title Oathbreaker was heavy on his shoulders. It earned him no respect, no trust. "I lost his flames not long after, and then I wandered. I wandered and I wandered and soon I realized I wanted to expand my view of the world. As I traveled across the lands, I realized the mistake I'd made. I'd felt so betrayed after my disillusion that I was too blind to appreciate The King Who Is. Through divinity and wisdom, he was redeemed of his acts of conquest, greed, and ego. I realized my anger shouldn't have been aimed at him, but the people who sold me a fractured story. I wanted to find the truth. I never wanted to be lied to again." He's a little more confident speaking, now. "...I want to reignite the flame. I am Oathbreaker Solomon. I want to one day become a Herald."