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?))
Zehran hesitated at the entrance of the tent, the smell of damp cloth and candle wax mixing with the thick swamp air. He stepped inside fully, ducking his head and brushing past the hanging flaps before settling onto the cushion as the old hag had gestured.
He studied her in silence for a moment, then gave a slight nod, the flicker of candlelight catching in his deep red eyes.
“My story?” he echoed, his voice low but steady as he is a man of few words. “I’m not sure what part of it you’re expecting to hear.”
Zehran glanced around the tent once, as if half-expecting someone else to emerge from the shadows, then returned his gaze to the woman. “I’ve been traveling for some time now. Places like this aren’t new to me... quiet, forgotten, a little... broken. It reminds me of what I used to call home.” He shrugged lightly. “But... I’ve seen worse.”
He leaned forward slightly, his tone softening. “But you said you’ve been expecting me, so maybe you know something I don’t. Maybe you can tell me why this place pulled me in like it did.”
Then, with a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, he added, “Or maybe you just say that to everyone who walks through the flap of this tent... Nevertheless, let me introduce myself.”
Zehran gave a breath through his nose, his eyes fixed on the hag, his voice low and emotionless.
“I grew up in a cliffside; half cave-half ruin, on the outskirts of old Ramasar. My clan traded goods, told stories about the ancestors, and tried to keep our customs alive, but even as a child I never felt tied to any of it. I didn’t speak much, as I never saw the power of loud voices. While others fought over names and bloodlines, I taught myself to listen, to observe. To move without sound and to breathe without being noticed.”
He paused for a moment, glancing toward the candles hanging in the air. “Most people want to be remembered, but that is not me.” He leaned forward slightly, his fingers tracing a scar on his gloved hand that the old hag couldn't see. “Instead I am on a quest to become the best archer the dark has ever known: unseen, unheard, impossible to match. That’s the quest I’ve taken on. To strike before my name is known and spoken. And to disappear before their dead body hits the ground.”
A small smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I am on a quest to find a mentor who could teach me to use a little magic, next to my archery skills: just enough make sure I stay forgotten. I want silence, precision... and the certainty that if my target falls, there’s only one name they might never get the chance to say: mine.”
