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?))
(Valdr removes his hood slowly, the damp air clinging to the edges of his cloak. He does not sit at once — instead he studies the candles, the hag, the way the shadows breathe across the canvas — before finally lowering himself onto the offered cushion with a quiet exhale.)
“Valdr,” he says simply.
“I was born in the Aevosian marches, to a miller who drank too much and a mother who prayed harder than the rest of us lived. I’m in my thirties now — old enough to know mercy is a luxury, young enough to still chase coin when it calls.”
He folds his gloved hands together.
“I became a sword for hire when famine took our fields and the Crown took our men. Bandits, deserters, monsters, rival banners — it all paid the same if you lived long enough to collect. I learned to fight clean, leave quieter, and never pretend I was anything more than what I am.”
His eyes lift to meet hers.
“I’ve guarded caravans through undead-haunted marsh, put down rebels who still believed in better kings, and walked away from contracts that stank worse than this place.” A faint, dry smirk. “Not many of those.”
He shifts slightly, the leather of his armor creaking.
“I don’t worship heroes. I don’t curse villains. I believe in the weight of steel, the truth of scars, and the promise of payment. But I also believe some roads don’t let you walk them by accident.”
Valdr glances toward the tent entrance, where fog presses like watching breath.
“So when you say you expected me, hag… I reckon that means my next contract isn’t written in coin alone. And if you’re about to tell me why I’m here — you’d best do it before I decide this town is too cursed even for a mercenary.”
