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?))
Aren ducked beneath the tent’s torn flap, the scent of wax and incense thick in the air. His eyes adjusting to the dim candlelight that hovered like restless spirits. The hag’s words hung in the air. “Ah, it’s you. I’ve been expecting you. Sit. Tell me your story.” He knelt without a word, the movement silent and deliberate. The tattered kimono shifted, revealing the faint silver of old scars beneath the flickering light. For a long moment, he said nothing, only the sound of rain against canvas filled the space. Finally, his gaze lifted to meet hers. Sharp. Calm. Measured. “My story?” His voice was low and smooth, “It’s not one worth hearing.” He drew a slow breath, eyes tracing the dancing flame of a nearby candle. “The path here was not chosen.. it was endured. I follow the scent of blood and memory, and both led me through your swamp.”
