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?))
I draw a steady breath as the weight of my mail settles upon my shoulders. The road has worn me thin, yet I stand firm as I begin to speak.
“My name was forged in the far North, in lands of deep snow and ancient firs, where survival is learned early and mercy is rare. I was born to a small village nestled between mountains and forest, far from the ambitions of kings or lords. Life there was harsh, but honest. I knew no world beyond it.
When I was nearing my fourteenth winter, my father, Harold, took me into the highlands to hunt. The day was unfruitful, and as dusk fell we turned homeward. That was when we saw the smoke rising beyond the trees. Soon after, the wind carried screams.
We ran.
Raiders from the surrounding wildlands had descended upon our village. Homes burned, and steel rang against steel. My father ordered me to hide among the rocks as he rushed ahead—my mother, Livia, had been seized. I watched from afar as he fought to reach her. He did not succeed. Both were slain before my eyes.
Overcome by rage and grief, I abandoned hiding and charged the attackers. I struck wildly, without skill or sense, and was quickly overwhelmed. I was beaten, chained, and left barely conscious. Death would have been a mercy—but it did not come.
I was held captive for several days before being sold to a northern lord whose domain bordered the wilds. Seeing strength in my frame and anger in my spirit, he spared me the mines and set me to work among his household guard. I was not treated as kin, nor as a knight—but I was fed, armed, and trained, for my labor and loyalty.
For years I served. I learned discipline where once there was only fury. I trained with sword and shield, stood watch upon frozen walls, and followed orders without question. I was no legend, but I became capable—reliable. When I reached my nineteenth winter, the lord released me from service, judging that I had repaid my debt.
I left the North with little more than my arms and what I had learned.
During my travels southward, I crossed paths with a wandering priest devoted to the Divines. Through him, I found guidance and purpose beyond the blade. We journeyed together for a time, offering aid where we could and seeking shelter where it was given.
One night, while resting within the walls of a secluded sanctuary, we were attacked by bandits. The fight was desperate and chaotic. I survived—but my companion did not. I held him as life faded from his body, unable to save him despite all my strength.
Since that night, I have wandered alone.
The road eventually led me here. When I asked where a man might begin anew—where steel, faith, and resolve could find purpose—every path pointed toward you.”
