hecatee

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?)) The light-brown-haired woman with blonde highlights, which shone brightly in the sun, simply stared at the old woman, raising a brow at the sudden appearance. Her fingers tightened around her wool cape; the texture felt rough, worn out through her ghastly adventures in the world. With a carefully thought-out explanation, the woman looked away from the old hag. Raising her head to the sky above, a nervous chuckle escaped her dry lips. "Oh, I just, uh…" you stutter, tensing up. You eye the crone, then back outside the tent. For a moment, the air thickens with anticipation, until… "Does my story interest you so much?" The woman retorted, her voice unsteady with each word. Nervousness seemed to be eating up at her, the emotion that felt oh so familiar. With that, she spilled her story. Her mind set back to the time of her village, the tall figure before her. The chief of the village, the man who was meant to be her father-in-law. The heavy weight of becoming an important figure in the proud village, Selalon. Where strength and pride were the most important. Fear overwhelmed her, the outcome of becoming someone she wasn't when she turned 15. Her mind raced; a year away it was. She was going to be married in the next year to the chief's son. A man whom she'd never truly met. With that, her body tensed, her fingers trembled. Her body began to sweat. Within that year, she had to practice how to be a proper wife, prepared for her big day. Until the night before, when she ran. Her gown torn, her body freezing in the cold winter. The girl was found in the cold snow by villagers in a nearby town. Her pleas filled the room as she awoke, her temperature at 100.4°F, or as the Vikings had said, warm enough to melt ice. The woman shrieked, her body felt like it was burning. Escaping her village in a wedding dress wasn't her brightest idea. Although she looked at her clothes and they were far from what she had worn the night before. She was dressed in something else, which alone confused her. Raising a brow, a woman appeared, an old woman. Short, struggling to walk alone with the use of her cane. Her fingers trembled as they held the brim of the cane tightly. Her voice hoarse, shaky with each word coming out bitter, almost painful. "I had you dressed.. with the help of the villagers. Women, yes, now child. Where do you come from? Wedding dress you were in, answers for the mess we found you in. Not." Her speech seemed odd to the girl. Her body trembled, "I am not named 'child', you crazy old bat. I'm.. Astrid." The name felt bitter. A feeling of disdain for her origin, "I am from Selalon, a village up North, I believe. I didn't travel far, perhaps a few miles or less. I... escaped." She whispered the last words. "Speak louder child." The old crone exclaimed, her bony finger pointing at Astrid. ".. I escaped you, old hag. I was to be wedded. Married, to the Chief of Seladon's son." Astrid sighed, her voice shook with disgust as she explained. "I see.. Married yes? Know the man you do not, yes?" The old hag knew this caused Astrid to be confused. "Yes.. I've seen him, spoken to him once or twice. Not much past that." She sighed. "Rest now child. For you are safe now, the fever will not go away until you heal. Return, you won't." The hag promised. A bitter laugh left Astrid's mouth, safe. That didn't fit the description of how she felt. Perhaps the old hag was right; she would be safe here. She doubted the thought, but it was better than living in constant fear. Astrid had stayed in that village for two years, finding her place in the town. The way sheep continued to run free despite the farmer's insistence that the fences were perfectly fine. The blacksmith lectured his daughter for dropping valuable tools before he laughed it off and rubbed her hair. Until one night, a messenger from Seladon came. Incapable of recognizing Astrid, the messenger came with a letter. To return the wife of the Chiefton's son. Once the messenger had left, the same old hag who cared for her taught her the ways of herbology. In her mind, the child had to go. To be freed from the town that had plagued her for 15 years. "You must go, child, we've looked after you for two years. Enjoyed our time, yes, but you are not safe here. Destined for more, you are. The ancestors call. Your destiny calls." The old hag, Asta, believed it was the right time. Despite appearing calm, the knowledge of letting go of the young one pained her. "Visit Bjorn. He shall have a gift for you, prepared for you it was. Visit Sigrid after, yes." Astrid shook her head violently; she couldn't. This was her newfound home; she was safe here. Asta demanded, "CHILD. You MUST." The pain in Asta's voice hurt Astrid the most. Astrid's legs moved on their own, running off to the Blacksmith's shop, knocking on his door violently. "BJORN." She screamed, the blacksmith crept the door open, his eyes drooping to the floor. "So it is time..?" He seemed familiar with the thought. Opening the door entirely, he gestured for her to follow closely behind. He pulled off a cloth, an armor built to fit her. Silver plates, carefully placed to fit her. Blue highlights in the armor signify the colors of her home. Gold lining on the arms. Black gloves carefully made, the stitching seemed all too familiar. Freya's work is no less. She looked down at the shoes, definitely Freya's work. The black pants and shirt would keep her warm. Carefully woven by the very hands of such a sharp-tongued woman. She nodded her head carefully, "I suppose.. this is a farewell gift. Yes?" She eyed the blacksmith, his eyes watered as he began to sob violently. Unable to speak, his voice cracking. Interrupted by his hiccups as he looked at the girl. Once so young, two years passed, and she looked like a young woman. To see her grow was a blessing, he nodded. His hands swiftly set the armor and under armor in a neat bag made of leather. His daughter appeared from her room, "You.. should go.. It was nice meeting you, Astrid." She bowed her head. Hugging her father as she broke down into tears along with him. Astrid carefully walked away. Tears stained her shirt. She continued to follow Asta's instructions. The Armor was packed in a bag she was given by the Blacksmith, marching to the farmer. Eying the sheep that escaped its pen once again. "Sigrid." Her voice cracked as the timid man appeared, handing her a bag as he slammed the door shut. His arms shook more during that exchange. It seemed that the prosperous village was all grieving, walking down to the main plaza, and children hugged her legs. Adults patted her shoulders as they tried not to cry. The old hag didn't appear, certainly grieving in secrecy. "I'll... get dressed." She said, walking off to the home where she was staying. Within an hour of her stay, the last moments had come. No celebration for her departure, tears clung to the faces of the prideful village. With that, she marched to the gate, standing at the entrance of it all. With a shaky scream, she yelled, "THANK YOU, GRISMA." Tears rolling down her cheeks, a loud horn was blown after her words. An old hoarse voice shook with might, the old hag. "TAKE CARE, CHILD. DO NOT DISAPPOINT ME, YOUNG ONE!" She said with pride, despite the unwelcoming and less-than-friendly words. Pride swelled in Astrid's heart, and with a cheesy smile, she retorted. "YEAH? WELL! DON'T DIE OLD HAG! LIVE UNTIL I COME BACK!" She said, waving goodbye, walking off as the villagers shouted their goodbyes.