HomelesseMan

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?)) Zarek gose and sits down on the cushion and looks at the old hag. He put down his sword form his back and started to talk with the hag. "Hello" he said.The hag looked at him. "tell me boy, your not human are you". She mutterd. "that hight and those eyes" she said. Zarek went quiet the said " i am Adunian". The hag nodded. "i got my mothers blood in me" Zarek said. " tell me about your story now"."You want to know my story?" Zarek asked. The old hags eyes looked bright in the dim light then she said "Yes traveler tell me your story"." i am from the north" Zarek began his voice low. " My father was a swordsman" Zarek said." He teached me my skills" he continued." And how to surive in the wild" he said. The old hag nodded her expersion shifting a bit." and how did a boy form the north end up as a traveler" she said wating for a answer. "when i was 16 bandits raided my villige" Zarek said. "they left nothing but me alive" he continued while the memorys came back. "ever since i have been on the path" He said. "Training the blade and looking for revange" he said. Then zarek said " i have stayed to long". He stood up and slung his sword on his back. He opens the tent flap and looks out at the drak town. "it smells like rot here" he said over his shoulder before leaving. the hag watched him leave. "A sharp noes for a swords man" the hag mutterd.

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 enter the tent, and the candles begin to flicker, their flames reaching out to me as if they sense something. I sit down and still not taking my eyes away. "My father taught swordsmanship. My mother forged shields. At sixteen, I fought border wars. I believed that I knew fear." I close my mouth tightly. "But it was when I was twelve that it started. In the Adunian cliffside strongholds, children are not brought up, children are made. Steel before letters. Wind and rock as tutors. At sixteen, I was actually thinking that I was invincible." I rest my forearms on my thighs. "Then suddenly, there was something. No flags. No footsteps. Only silence. The first the hunters vanished. Then the children. We went after it into the ravine, and by the time night fell... it was like smoke among us. At dawn, half the dead were my kin." After a pause. "I survived." The candles begin to flicker again. "I was guided by the whispers here. Disappearing people. People who are like shadows. And three nights ago, there was a vision of this tent in my dream. You." I slightly recline, my stare still penetrating yours.

Born in the rugged borderlands of the Adunian territories, Zarek Vaen grew up surrounded by warriors, harsh winters, and endless skirmishes. From a young age, he learned that respect was earned through skill and courage, not words. Proud and fiercely independent, he dedicated himself to mastering swordsmanship, strategy, and survival, always pushing his limits to prove his worth. Zarek wields a black sword, unassuming yet deadly in his hands. Though it is a standard blade by design, he has forged his own connection with it, moving with a precision and grace that makes even seasoned opponents wary. Every strike is measured, every movement calculated — a reflection of his pride, discipline, and unwavering confidence. Clad in black attire reinforced with light armor, Zarek blends mobility with protection, able to strike swiftly while weathering the dangers of the battlefield. He fights not only to defend his clan and those he values but also to leave a mark of his own legend, proving that his name will be remembered as one of skill, honor, and unyielding pride.