Bogart

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 enters the tent with a stiff, heavy gait, boots an pant legs still wet, through and through, from the swamp outside. As he enters the tent, it is filled with the stench of sweat and mildew. He stands there for a moment, staring at the hag with a long, tired look as if deciding whether she's worth the air. He eventually sits down on the cushion with the painful, aching motion of someone who's walked too long and slept too little. "I'm not here for tea and gossip," he growls, his voice rough, like the stereotypical outlaw southern drawl. "I've been told you're informed. About people who stopped showin' their faces.. or people who don't stay dead when they oughta." His eyes scan the room, not paranoid, but wary. The kind of thing you get used to after too many restless nights. He leans back far enough to rest his calloused fingers over his knees. "You want to hear my story? I'll. I spent my best years fightin' for what I thought was noble. Thought I was doing good. 'til I figured out whose orders I was really following." His eyes tighten, focusing on her again. "Now I'm here.". I don't believe in prophets, or oracles, or whatever you're sellin'.. but every road I've walked leads me here. So if you've actually been waitin' on me, please, speak. Dane, The Tarnished Star, was once a swordsman bound to a frontier lord charged with keeping the outer marches in their place. For years, he made arrests, hunted criminals, and collected debts in his lord's name, earning both fear and grudging respect from the people who dwelt on the edge of the world. He wore an iron badge in the shape of a star, a symbol on power, but the shine faded with each mission that crossed the line between justice and brutality. Having been ordered to order an attack on an unarmed village that had failed to pay its tax, Dane finally defected. He cast away his title, abandoned his post, and disappeared into the forest, leaving behind his rank and reputation. Now a wandering sellsword, he takes whatever job he can find, tracking, bounty hunting, escort duty.

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 pulls his hat low, over his brow, the brim shielding his eyes from the flickering candlelight, casting a shadow on his eyes. His scent.. That of damp earth and mud stuffs up the air, matching his mud soaked, tattered shawl. "I don’t come looking for company," He begins, voice low and steady, "but sometimes the past catches up, and this place… it’s where I’m told some ghosts linger." His eyes wander around the tent, taking in the shadows that dance on the walls. "I'm here to find the bastard who did this to my face." Leaning forward, he meets the hag’s gaze with a quiet intensity, the candle illuminates his disfigured nose. "I was told you'd be waiting for me, that you'd know why I came. Personally, I don't buy it, but I figured this was my only recourse." His fingers curl into a loose fist, that falls to his side. He takes a slow breath, the candlelight catching the scars on my hands, and up his forearm. "If you want my story, know it’s one of mistakes, but these mistakes I’ve paid for. Though, I didn’t come here just to talk about the past, I came because I was told you had answers. And if you've been expecting me, then maybe there's some merit to those claims." His voice drops to a gravelly whisper. "So, tell me, what do you see when you look at me?" Dane, known now as The Tarnished Star, was once a sworn swordsman and enforcer for a frontier lord tasked with maintaining order in the outer territories. For years, he carried out arrests, hunted bandits, and collected debts in the lord's name, earning both fear and reluctant respect from those who lived on the fringes of civilization. He wore an iron badge shaped like a star, an emblem of authority, though its shine faded with each job that crossed the line between justice and cruelty. After being ordered to lead a raid on a defenseless village that had refused to pay tribute, Dane finally broke ranks. He cast aside his title, abandoned his post, and vanished into the wilderness, leaving behind both his badge and reputation. Now a wandering sellsword, he takes whatever work he can find, tracking, bounty hunting, escort duty. Though he keeps to himself, he still carries the rusted badge in his pack, a reminder of the life he lost and the choices that still haunt him.