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 Highlander pauses just inside the tent flap, rainwater still dripping from the hem of his dark wool cloak. He is eighteen, tall and lean from years spent roaming the rugged northern hills, with black hair falling damp across his brow and eyes the pale grey of winter skies. A fresh scar cuts across his left cheek—thin, pink, earned only weeks ago in a skirmish he does not speak of. His hand rests lightly near the basket-hilt of an old broadsword slung across his back, a heavy heirloom blade that looks almost too large for his frame, yet he carries it with quiet ease.
He lowers his hood, candlelight flickering over sharp, watchful features. When he speaks, his voice is low and steady, carrying the rough burr of the Highland folk—proud descendants of Joren, who kept to the old ways far from the cities of the Heartlands.
“Expecting me?”
He tilts his head slightly, studying the hag with quiet caution.
“No one has ever waited for me before. Most just step out of the way.”
He crosses the small space and settles onto the cushion, sitting upright but not tense—knees drawn up, hands resting easy on them.
“My story is simple enough, old mother, and still short.”
He glances at the scar on his cheek, then meets her gaze again.
“I was born in the high northern crags, where the wind cuts sharp and the Highlanders hold to ancient customs: blood-oaths sworn by the hearth, honour won with steel, hospitality given freely to any who ask. We followed the Canonist faith in our own rough manner and kept clear of the lowland courts. My father taught me the sword and the old runes; my mother taught me the songs of our people before fever took her. When my father fell to raiders two winters past, there was no one left to keep the hearth alight.”
A faint shadow crosses his face, but his voice remains steady.
“The raids grew worse. Our steading dwindled. One night, after another fight left more graves than living, I knew I could not hold the hills alone. I took the old sword, what coin and provisions remained, and walked south.”
He spreads his hands slightly, a small, weary gesture.
“I have been travelling ever since, seeking a place where a young Highlander with a strong arm and a willing heart might find purpose—perhaps service with a lord who values honest steel, or land enough to build something new. I carry my family’s honour with me, and I mean to keep it bright.”
He offers a quiet half-smile—boyish, earnest, with steel beneath it.
“So here I am, drawn to this swamp by rumour of one who sees paths in the mist and bones. You called me here, or the roads did.”
He leans forward a little, voice earnest.
“Tell me plain, old mother: what do you see ahead for a wanderer who has lost his home but not his heart?”
