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.”
Raphaelis paused at the entrance of the tattered tent, his boots still wet from the swamp’s murky water. The floating candles drifted toward him as though tasting the air around him. The hag’s gaze was sharp despite her age, and when she gestured to the cushion, he hesitated only a moment before lowering himself onto it.
The cushion sighed beneath his weight. The tent smelled of herbs, mud, and something he could not name.
“…You’ve been expecting me,” he murmured quietly. “Then you already know I carry a story.”
He drew a slow breath, gathering his memories like fallen leaves.
His name was Raphaelis, a young Mali’ame of twenty-four winters. He had been born in a deep forest far from stone walls and iron cities—raised beneath whispering leaves that had sheltered his people for generations. His childhood was shaped by the old ways: reverence for the Aspects, respect for balance, and a bond with the wild that ran deeper than blood.
His eyes flicked briefly to the candles, then back to the hag.
He had never been the strongest hunter nor the swiftest scout. But he listened. To the branches, to the beasts, to the winds that carried warnings only he seemed to hear. The elders had said he listened too closely—though never unkindly. They had known, as he did, that the spirits had fixed their gaze upon him.
The tent seemed to grow quieter, as if the marsh itself leaned in to listen.
But peace never lasted. Not long before he came of age, the woods around his home began to change. Restless creatures. Twisted roots. Faint signs of blight creeping through the undergrowth. Outsiders might have ignored it—but the Mali’ame heard when the forest whispered in pain.
Raphaelis tightened his jaw.
The elders searched for answers in prayer and memory. And what they found chilled them all: whatever disturbed the forest’s balance came from beyond their borders.
His fingers brushed the small wooden bead on his wrist—a reminder of home.
So someone had to leave. To seek the cause, whether sickness or corruption or some hungry thing wandering unchecked. Not because he sought glory. Not because he was the strongest. But because the forest had whispered his name.
He left with only what he could carry: his father’s bow, herbs from his mother, and the promise that the spirits would watch his path. Since then, he had crossed strange lands, studying every forest he passed—its health, its harmony, its scars.
Now he met the hag’s eyes directly.
“And that path has led me here. To your swamp. To this town. To you.”
A moment of stillness followed.
“Now you know my story,” he whispered, leaning forward slightly. “You said you expected me. Tell me why.”
