Meeyus steps carefully into the candle-lit tent, the smell of damp earth and melted wax clinging to the air. He pauses for a moment, glancing back toward the swamp outside before turning his attention fully to the old hag. Slowly, he lowers himself onto the offered cushion, brushing mud from his trousers.
“My story?” he says quietly, folding his hands together. “It’s not a grand one.”
He exhales, eyes drifting to the flickering candles as he begins. He speaks of a quiet upbringing among halfling farmlands, of trading grain and preserves between settlements, learning the value of coin, favors, and patience. He mentions wars and unrest he heard about only from the edges—rumors carried by merchants and travelers—things far larger than himself.
“But I’ve learned something,” Meeyus continues, his voice steady. “Those who control food, trade, and roads rarely need to lift a blade. Power grows quietly, if one knows where to plant it.”
He meets the hag’s gaze then, a faint, polite smile on his lips.
“So I travel. I trade. I listen. And I wait to see where opportunity takes root.”
