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.”
Your feathers bristle as you lower yourself onto the cushion, the fabric crackling under your weight. The candles flicker, reflecting in your dark, glassy eyes. You keep your back straight—always ready to spring if needed.
“I don’t wander into towns like this for comfort,” you say, voice low and rough from years of cold marsh air. “Game’s been scarce in the wetlands. Tracks I’ve never seen before—deep, heavy, dragging something behind them.”
Your gaze narrows on the hag, studying her the same way you’d study prey.
“I followed those tracks here. And if you’ve been expecting me…” Your feathers lift slightly along your neck, a territorial display. “…then you know what’s stalking these swamps. And why it’s hunting me.”
You lean forward, bill‑shaped silhouette cutting through the candlelight.
“So tell me, crone. What do you know?”
