Cian Ó Suaird

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?)) Cian, visibly exhausted from his travels enters further into the tent. Confused, Cian pauses for a moment to admire all the wears and worn drapes in the tent, he carefully sits himself down on the lone dusty cushion near the lamp. Cian takes in a deep breath and begins; "My story… where do I begin? It feels like forever, a long-forgotten memory of emerald fields and the soothing cadence of country life. I am Cian, child of Maeve and Liam, and our lives, simple though they were, were fine. Our farm, nestled in the rolling hills, was my whole world. My father, Liam, was a unspoken strong man, his calloused hands as comfortable with the sensation of a hilt as to the plow. He was a proper guard of the King, often out on duty, but his shadow always loomed over us. My mother, Maeve, was the core of our hearth. Her smile was as golden as the honey bread that she made, its scent carried by the valley breeze, the guarantee of comfort and love. I used to dream as a child of being like my father, of having steel at my hip and the thrill of protecting the kingdom. Whenever he returned from his service, I'd pelt him with questions about battles and bravery, about the King and the honor of his guard. But my father would always fend off my childlike enthusiasm with a soft rattle of his head. "The fields need tending, Cian," he'd say to me, his eyes lined with a weariness I couldn't understand at the time. "That is where your duty lies." And thus I toiled in the sun, my heroic ambitions buried deep under the rich earth. Soon the whispers started, like a creeping fog creeping in from the sea. Whispers of a disease, a wasting disease that left its victims weak and febrile. It was far away to begin with, a story brought by passing merchants. But it crept near, the whispers softening into gentle words in the village, then into shrieks of fear. My father came home one evening, not with the confident walk of a King's guard, but with a racking cough that shook his very marrow. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes fixed and shining with fever. The sickness had taken him. On that night, life drained out of him, leaving my mother and myself despairing and shaking with fear. My mother, ever the nurse, tended his open wounds, her fingers tracing soothingly even as her own life began to decline. It wasn't long before the disease took her as well, her beautiful laugh silenced forever. Death was no longer an abstraction; it was a voracious beast, devouring our world. Destitution was the result, the fields untillable, the markets empty. No relief came from the King, his own court likely ruined by the same plague. I knew, in a ghastly certainty, that my life was over if I stayed. Nothing else was left to me in the barren land but the ghosts of my parents and the slow, cruel closing in of starvation. Driven by an abject desire to live, I proceeded to the edge of our territory, to the stone cliffs where foaming sea wrestled with broken rocks. The wind was screaming like a banshee, reverberating the madness in my heart. I was at the edge, the glacial spume of waves a bitter reminder of the finish that lay beneath. For a moment, the idea of going over the edge, of finishing the pain, was nearly suffocating. But then, out of the churning mist, I caught sight of it – a dark, tiny shape bobbing on the horizon. A boat. A glimmer of an idea, mad and unlikely, flashed within me. Escape. Another country. Any country. It didn't matter where. I ran back to our desolate farm, my chest pounding with a renewed sense of determination. I gathered what little we had remaining – some desiccated rations, a frayed blanket, and the most precious thing I owned: my father's battered leathers and greaves, a remnant from his initial tour of duty. The cold leather seemed to seep into my flesh as I buckled it on, I could still smell my father in those leathers, a tangible link to the man I once looked up with admiration. My destination was Hurlos, the hectic dock of the nearest city, a city I had no business being in. The journey was tedious and lengthy, my stomach burning from hunger, my throat parched. I stood on the docks of Hurlos for days, a hungry man among the throngs of merchants and sailors, begging for the chance to board any vessel leaving for the open sea. The smell of tar and fish filled the air, something other than the sweet aroma of my momma's bread. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, a weathered-faced captain, his features furrowed by years at sea, sympathized with me. He needed an extra pair of hands, he snarled, and offered me passage in exchange for labor. I didn't hesitate. I boarded the creaking merchant ship, my heart filled with fear and a frail hope. The sea days blurred together in a monotonous cycle of pounding waves and salted gusts. But then the sickness returned, a ghostly presence haunting the cramped quarters below deck. The crew members fell one by one, their coughs like the death rattle I had heard at home. Soon, I was left with a growing horror that I was among the few survivors. Days at sea, with no captain, and few to manage the vessel, a violent tempest formed at night. The skies grew darker than night with a bruised purple, the stars disappearing, the waves rolled up like furious mountains, and the wind screamed like a damned soul. Our ship, worn and battered, was no match for the fury of the sea. With a ghastly splintering the ship began to fall apart. I was flung into the churning water, the icy cold spreading into my very marrow. Struggling desperately for handfuls of splintered pieces of driftwood, I was bucked and tossed by waves that never stopped. I remember nothing but the taste of saltwater and the numbing fatigue pulling me down into the blackness. I awoke several hours later, the sun blinding me in the face. The rolling motion had stopped. Half-opened eyes beheld it – land. A hazy green line on the horizon. I called upon the final reserve of energy within me and kicked and paddled, the driftwood my only ration. It felt like forever, but finally my feet hit solid ground. I collapsed onto the sandy beach, the waves gently sluicing over my battered boots. For days, I trudged this strange, unfamiliar terrain, my muscles aching, my spirit weary. I ate the berries I did not dare to know and drank from crystal brooks. And then, beyond the trees, I saw it – a cluster of dilapidated buildings, smoke wafting aimlessly into the black sky. A town. With a surge of hope, I started walking, my feet heavy but determined."