asteriskify

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.” The brunette obliges, hesitantly, eyeing the dust that has gathered on the cushion with an estranged disgust. "Are you sure?" Ophelia smiles, a placid smile that doesn't quite reach my eyes. The air becomes thick with tension, almost suffocating. "Fine then." Ophelia sits down. She looks deeper into the crone's eyes, her hands placed on her chin in deep thought. "I believe the day I was born, I left whatever emotion humans call 'love' in the womb of my mother. My birth was frowned upon." She brushes her hands gently through her long brunette hair, the once sharp expression in her blue and yellow eyes hazed over with distance and coldness instead, "Can't you tell? I'm impure. She cursed me, and cast me away as an infant over a sin she had committed. Why, I'll never know, and I don't really care to know." The girl's voice doesn't rise, but her rage is palpable in every slight tremor that etches out a deep seeded burning vengeance, "But I know one thing. I will enact my revenge on the woman who despised me from the day I stole my first breath. The greatest disservice ever done to me. That curse. The curse of being born." I take a breath. I compose myself. And that doll-like placating smile returns. "Before I lay a finger on her. I want her to be aware, so staunchly aware that it aches at the back of her mind, that I have succeeded without her." She scoffs. "Of course, I never needed that woman after all. Look at me, drowning in riches, skilled in magic, and a heart that can no longer be broken by foolish limitations. Only a throne that lays at the top, calling my name, with my mother's head rolling down to the bottom. Pathetic and weak." Ophelia tilts her head with a bemused expression on her face, before bursting into sardonic laughter. "I'll see you in a century."

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.” The brunette obliges, hesitantly, eyeing the dust that has gathered on the cushion with an estranged disgust. "Are you sure?" Ophelia smiles, a placid smile that doesn't quite reach my eyes. The air becomes thick with tension, almost suffocating. "Fine then." Ophelia sits down. She looks deeper into the crone's eyes, her hands placed on her chin in deep thought. "I believe the day I was born, I left whatever emotion humans call 'love' in the womb of my mother. My birth was frowned upon." She brushes her slender hands gently through her long brunette hair, the once sharp expression in her blue and yellow eyes hazed over with distance and coldness instead, "Can't you tell? I'm impure. She cursed me, and cast me away as an infant over a sin she had committed. Why, I'll never know, and I don't really care to know." The girl's voice doesn't rise, but her rage is palpable in every slight tremor that etches out a deep seeded burning vengeance, "But I know one thing. I will enact my revenge on the woman who despised me from the day I stole my first breath. The greatest disservice ever done to me. That curse. The curse of being born." She takes a breath. And that doll-like placating smile returns. "Before I lay a finger on her. I want her to be aware, so staunchly aware that it aches at the back of her mind, that I have succeeded without her." She scoffs. "Of course, I never needed that woman after all. Look at me, drowning in riches, and a heart that can no longer be broken by foolish sentimentality. Only a throne that lays at the top, calling my name, with my mother's head rolling down to the bottom. Pathetic and weak." Ophelia tilts her head with a bemused expression on her face, before bursting into sardonic laughter. "I'll see you in a century." She turns to leave, but briefly looks back with a condescending pity. "If you'll even be alive by then, human."