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?))
“My story, is it?” She gave a soft snort and eased herself onto the cushion, her eyes scanning some invisible horizon. “I don’t remember where I was born. Nowhere worth remembering, that’s for certain. My father made sure we never stayed in one place long enough to belong. He said roots were for fools or prisoners."
She paused, lost for a moment in thought, “He raised me the only way he knew, with a bottle in one hand and an empty cup in the other. The kind of man who could beg for coin with one breath and curse the gods with his next.” A bitter venom crept into her voice. “I can’t recall a day I didn’t hate him. Or a day I wasn’t dreaming of the moment I’d-" She paused briefly, as if sorting her words, "leave him to his misery.”
Selucia’s eyes met the hag’s as they grew dark and unwavering. “And one day, I did. Left him where he lay, drunk in the mud, and I didn’t take a damned thing but the name he gave me.”
Her shoulders eased slightly, and her tone softened, shifting with memory. “After that I wandered, Took what work I could, whatever paid in bread or a bed. No one teaches you how to survive when you’ve got no one, but you learn quick. Or you don’t.”
She dug a gloved hand beneath her robe, retrieving an aged and fraying wineskin. The stopper gave a soft creak as she pulled it free, and she took a quick pull before tucking it away once more. Her words came calmer now, as something close to warmth.
"I'm not sure how many years it was til I met Galiana....another Velulite like me. I didn’t even know what that meant back then. My father never spoke of much, there was no room for gods in his petty world of miseries. But she… she had strength. Carried herself like someone who’d been dealt the worst of this world and chose to keep walking.”
Selucia smiled faintly, the lines of her face easing as the memory took hold. “She was a soldier once, I think. But she never spoke much about it. Didn’t need to. Still, she looked out for me. Protected me. And in return, I made myself useful. Learned fast and fought harder." Selucia paused, the smile lightly growing, "She'd tell me stories of Luara. Told me if I ever felt alone, no matter how dark the night, She’d be there....watching over all us lost and unmourned.”
The smile dimmed then wholly faded and Selucia straightened, her gaze sharpening.
“That’s when I started thinking....maybe people like us...the lost, the hunted, the ones scraping by...it didn’t have to be all there ever was or could be. We could build something more. Something greater.”
“I've seen what misery and fear make of a life and seen how power turns hearts to something twisted. I’ve got no interest in crowns or thrones… but give folks something worth fighting for...something bigger than themselves...and they’ll follow you into the fire.”
She paused, her eyes narrowing just slightly, and then with a dry chuckle, added:
“And if you believe hard enough….well, even the fire can be your home.”
