FrancisCriollan

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 young man hesitated before sitting down, the flickering candlelight reflecting off his weary eyes. “My name is Francis Criollan,” he began quietly, his voice rough from days of travel. “I come from the countryside, far from here. My father was once a warrior—strong, proud—but when his blade dulled, he found peace in the forge. I helped him craft swords and plows, until…” He paused, the memory burning brighter than the candles. “Two months ago, a fire took everything. My parents, our home, our smithy—all gone in a single night. I’ve wandered since then, seeking a place to start anew. Perhaps this town is where I’m meant to begin again.” He met the hag’s gaze, a mix of sorrow and determination in his eyes. “If you truly were expecting me, then maybe fate has not abandoned me after all.”