Nameless Blade

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?)) Godfrey ducks into the tent, water running off the hood of his cloak, the odor of the swamp sticks to him like a second skin. He remains motionless in the candle haze for a moment, his eyes adjusting, before collapsing onto the cushion with the weariness of a man who has not rested in days. “Not expecting a welcome,” he grumbles, shaking his hood back. He has an even, smooth voice. “Godfrey is my name. Merely another sword without a banner and far too much time on my hands." He steps, his leather belt protesting with a creak under the sword buckled there. "Used to ride with an independent company south — border raids, road cutting, that kind of dirty work none of the knights want the reputation for. They paid all right. Company wasn't. They disappeared in the dead of night, the camp stripped in under the sunup. Left me with the scar, the debt that wasn't mine." His fingers follow the discolored burn below his chin as he speaks. “Been drifting since. From city to city. From field to field. I drift wherever the coin rings or wherever the blood runs too still. But lately… been having dreams. Dreams you wake from. Visions. Smoke. Screams. A door I cannot open. He looks up now, eyes locking onto the candlelight, sharpened with fear. Then I heard about it. Town rotten through and through. Something festering underneath the surface. Thought maybe there would be answers here. Or maybe there would be another waitin' grave. Either way. “ He relaxes back, breathing regularly. "So, why were you expecting me?"