Nikolai.

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?)) Nikolai lingered at the tent’s entrance, the swamp’s stench heavy on his coat, water dripping steadily from his boots onto the rug. He did not sit right away. His gaze wandered over the hag, then drifted to the wavering shadows on the canvas walls. At length, he lowered himself onto the cushion, his movements unhurried, restrained. “If you’ve been expecting me,” he said evenly, “then you likely know enough already.” His fingers brushed the silver coin in his pocket, though he left it where it was. His eyes stayed on the flames, calm, distant. “Stories are... personal,” he added, his tone courteous though detached. “I don’t share mine lightly.” A faint edge crept into his voice as he leaned back. “And I have no interest in speaking about the past.”

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?)) Nikolai lingered at the tent’s entrance, the damp stench of the swamp still clinging to his coat. Water dripped from his boots, leaving dark, uneven spots on the worn rug. He didn’t sit immediately. Instead, his gaze met the hag’s, cold and steady, as though weighing the worth of every word she might say. Only after a long silence did he lower himself onto the cushion, the motion unhurried, deliberate. “If you’ve been expecting me,” he said, his voice low, “then you already know my story.” His fingers brushed the silver coin in his pocket, hidden from view. His eyes flickered to the dancing candlelight, a shadow crossing his expression. “But… I’ll humor you. It starts on the docks… and ends with fire.”