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?))
Raelius hesitates, the damp air cligning to his cloak as he ducks into the tent. The candelight catches his gray-streaked hair and throwes uneven shadows across his face. "My story?" He says after a while, his voice roughened by travel and a hint of pride. "I come from the far West, marble halls, polished speeches and people who smile while they sharpen knives behind your back. I was a peasant attending to powerful men in the senate once. Thought I understood how power worked, boy was I wrong." He gives a quiet humourless laugh and meet the hags eyes. "Turns out power is just another kind of debt. And Ive come to collect what Im owed."
