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.”
I’m from a village called Graythollow. You’ve probably never heard of it — most people haven’t. It’s tucked away past the old hills, surrounded by woods that grow thicker than the lies people tell to keep things quiet.
Life there was simple. Hard work, long winters, and too many people who cared more about tradition than truth. I did my part — worked the fields, helped where I could, kept my head down. For a while, that was enough.
But eventually, I said something I wasn’t supposed to. Maybe I stood up for someone I wasn’t meant to defend. Maybe I just asked the wrong question at the wrong time. Doesn’t matter now.
One morning, the elders called me in. Told me I wasn’t welcome anymore. No real explanation. No chance to speak. Just a quiet warning: be gone by sundown.
