Laurence Griffin

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?)) Griffin stands in the doorway of the tent, The heavy scent of wax and wet peat clings to the stale air inside. He eyes the hag’s hollow gaze, unease flickering across his weathered face. He doesn’t sit at first. Just stares. he mutters, his voice like creaking timbers. His eyes drift toward the suspended candles, then to the cushion. Slowly, he lowers himself onto it, stiff from the cold walk through the swamp. The candlelight dances across his tattoos as he shrugs off his cloak. he begins, fingers absently tracing his mustache. “My ship, The Pharaon, went down in the Strait. Storm took her. Took the crew. Took my captain.” He swallows. His voice tightens. “I shouldn’t be here. I wasn’t supposed to make it. The sea had me but it let me go.” Griffin looks at the hag, eyes narrowing slightly. He leans forward, “…You’ve been expecting me?”