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 orc lowers himself onto the cushion, the reeds in his armor whispering as he moves. For a moment, he says nothing—only watches the candles sway, their flames bending like they’re afraid to stand straight.
“My story,” he rumbles at last, voice rough as gravel soaked in rain. “It is not one I tell often. Orcs are taught to remember with scars, not words.”
He taps two thick fingers against his chest.
“I was born in the bogs, where the ground swallows the careless and the strong rule until they fall. My clan was called the Swamp-Fang. We did not build cities or carve stone halls. We moved when the land told us to move, hunted what the swamp allowed us to hunt, and burned the rest so nothing followed us home.”
His jaw tightens.
“I was meant to lead them. I was the biggest of my litter, the one who did not sink when others did. But strength draws eyes, and curses of course. One night, the marsh went silent. No insects. No frogs. That is when the lights came. Pale things drifting above the water, whispering promises of power and victory.”
He exhales slowly.
“I followed them. I thought I was proving myself.”
The candles flicker.
“When I returned, my clan was gone. Not dead, but gone. No blood. No bones. Just empty huts and water where fire pits once burned. In the mud, there were symbols carved deep, older than orcish runes. I still see them when I close my eyes.”
He finally looks up at the hag.
“I searched for years. Every swamp, every ruin, every place that smells like rot and old magic. Most people run when they see me. Some try to kill me. A few pretend to help, until they learn what hunts me back.”
He curls his hand into a fist.
“Because something took my clan. Something that wears the swamp like a skin. And wherever it goes, towns like this appear; half-dead, sinking, waiting.”
His gaze hardens, but there’s something wounded beneath it.
“So I came here because the swamp whispered again. Because the lights returned. And because you,” he nods toward her, “knew my face before I spoke.”
He sits back, shoulders heavy.
“That is my story, old one. I am not here for gold or glory. I am here to finish what I started… or to be swallowed by the marsh like the rest.”
