Chrysophylax

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?)) Oryx inhaled deeply, taking in a lungful of musty air as his uneasy gaze fell upon the hag. "Have you?" Dry, monotone and dark, his voice seemed distant. "How convenient." A balled fist raised to stifle a rasping cough, his eyes scanning the tent for a brief moment before again he broke the silence. "Oryx, a pleasure to meet you." His head dipped faintly in greeting, albeit a little half-heartedly. "I can only apologise for my lacklustre presentation," he motioned to himself, his boots damp, his fabric frayed and worn, "I've but recently set foot upon the soil again." "It's been a long year at sea; I serve as a page of sorts to a scholar." He continued, seeming to ponder a moment. "His interests... rather unfortunately... require our residence on deep-sea fishing vessel." "Though nominally I serve him, his studies, and tinkerings, I found myself at work on the ship and its catch rather more often than expected." Pausing, he interjected with a shrug. "I'm no stranger to the life. I've served the same fellow for perhaps nine winters now, and yet it seems this might've been the last - whatever curiosity drove him there appears to have been sated." "Thus," he spoke almost reluctantly, "I drift without direction. Perhaps I'll find some here."