EastEndRipper

En Bergen only travels by night, free-spirited, guided by the stars, his only companion. He goes wherever his feet may lead, wherever his heart feels right. Before dawn breaks, worn, Bergen arrives to a swampy, dim-lit town – a place he hasn’t seen before that seems to call him by name. As he looks around, his gaze met with old shacks and dusty cabins all placed messily about the wooded area; it smells of rotted wood and wet moss, of pen animals. The breezy wind here sounds like the laughter of children and the cries of elderly grief. It’s haunted by the dead, and alive alike. This place calls for travelers, like himself, he soon realizes, the beginning of their journey. Ducking, En steps into a tattered tent at the edge of the town, lluminated by a series of melting candles suspended in the air. Magic like dust lingers in the air, tickling the back of his throat. At the far back of the tent, an old hag raises her head full of wisky white hair; wrinkled eyelids heavy on her piercing eyes and dry lips stretched in a crooked smile. She sees him, a suspicious figure standing at the entrance of her tent; though En is not particularly tall or physically strong there’s something not quite right about this man, haunting even, she realizes, squinting her eyes as the man approaches. “What brings you to this dingy town?” It might be the misty gaze that look at you through the eyes of the skull, or that twitching lift of his thin lips, barely holding in a burgling laughter but surrounded by the dark this newcomer looks quite a bit like a crazed maniac. Bergen pulls of his mask; the broken face of a skull that he barely ever takes off. The warm light of the candles fall across his high cheekbones, strong, square-shaped jaw and round chin. The light brush agaisnt dark hair, paiting strands bloody-red hue. His nose is long, slender and broken at the bridge. He steps deeper, inspecting the small tent with curious gaze. En's thick, bushy eyebrows furrow heavily over a pair of downturned eyes. What’s most striking about this man’s appearance is the dark burn mark, in the shape of a hand, left right in the middle of his face that seems still charring the worn skin. The hag falls silent, it takes her a short moment to study his face, the shifting fog that twists and shapes in his eyes like two crystal balls, his mischievous smile, and the characteristic burn—”Ah, En. Yes... I’ve been expecting you,” she points her twig finger at the thin cushions before her, and the man has a feeling he's late. En takes a sit on the cushions, and the woman grunts, “Well then, tell me your story...” His eyes lighten, like sky after days of rain, and his lips twitch sharply, “Eh, there's not much to tell, lady..." he starts oddly at ease before a woman he's never met, "Don't know my family, or where I'm from. All fog in there. I'm tied to no place so I live where I want. Some call me a stray dog you see--" her lips twitch in amusment, and he breaths a little easier, "but it's not entirely true--- ," and as they talk night turns into day, and the town begins to wake… [A\N: I'm sorry if this is excesive. The whole write your response got into my head a little and I've been drafting for like an hour as if it's a "make your novel assignment". I tried to keep it short but also not quite, because I didn't realize there's a character limit in character description and I wrote quite big, fancy words, paragraph that would otherwise go to waste... So yeah:) I hope this is fine!]