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.”
Tight-gripped fingers loosened about the grizzled traveller's scabbard as his gaze rose to meet that of the hag, his surprise unbetrayed by a solemn scowl. "My story? Ill would it be to deny you in your own home..." A balled fist rose to stifle a raspy cough.
Gaze fluttering briefly about the candles, swaying folds of canvas, and various trinkets littering the tent, Osric stooped to kneel atop the cushion, bowing his head but a moment in greeting. "Osric - knight errant - of no master." A gruff baritone, monotonous in its echoes, arose.
"Pity, it is, that our meeting be graced by so dark a sky." Glancing briefly ashoulder at the moan of rain and thunder, he tore off a damp glove, folding it for stowing. "Ravenmire - or so it once was - from there I art: its bitter shores."
"Once I fought to defend its people - now it is my blood to be spilt." Scarred hands bore the wages of many battles, eyes flickering in the candlelight with a resolve of icy steel. "Empty now its streets feel; the cobbles whisper the names of the dead... and many do they number."
"Too, now, do I count myself amongst those who have fled the storm, seeking solace in what warmth Aevos has left to offer."
Musing a moment, a finger traced the marks circling his gauntlet. "To war, perhaps I must; to understand, I can only hope."
"Dark is the night that silences mourning. Yet may we wrest light from its maw."
