A karaktered épp most érkezett meg egy mocsaras, homályos városba. Ahogy körülnéznek, tekintetük viskókkal és faházakkal találkozik. Korhadt fa és nedves moha szaga terjeng. Lehajolnak és belépnek egy rongyos sátorba, amelyet a levegőben lógó gyertyák sora világít meg. A sátor hátuljában egy vénasszony felemeli a fejét: „Mi szél hozott ebbe a piszkos városba?” – kezdi, majd megáll, hogy tanulmányozza az arcodat – „Á, te vagy az . Vártalak. Ülj le” – int egy párnára –, „Meséld el a történetedet.”
((Hogyan reagálsz?))
Necro slowly lowers himself onto the cushion, his crimson eyes fixed on the old woman. For a moment, he says nothing, as if weighing whether she is worth his words. Finally, his voice comes out low and coarse, like smoke rising from a dying fire.
"I was born in the shadow of mountains, where the sun rarely touched the stone. My kin were wanderers—outcasts, hunted, despised. By the time I was fifteen, bandits had torn my home apart. Fire ate the roofs, steel cut the air, and what little I called mine was taken from me. Since then, I have carried only what I could hold: a blade, my name, and the will not to die."
He runs a hand along the edge of his cloak, his gaze never leaving the woman’s.
"So what brings me here? Hunger. Curiosity. Perhaps a promise that the world still holds a place even for those it would rather forget. Or perhaps…"—his lips twist into the hint of a smile—"perhaps I simply followed the stench of rot to see what kind of secrets grow in it.
