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?))
"Me? No one really. But I plan to change that." Wyllas straightens up, his dark green eyes catching candlelight. "I will be someone someday, I'll show father that he was wrong." Wyllas's eyes no longer meet the crone's but look beyond her, beyond the canvas of the tent, and beyond this dingy town.
"Your father, he didn't believe you capable of this?" The crone prods.
"He didn't believe himself capable of such. He accepted his lot in life. He resigned himself to be no more than a farmer for a Lord only greater than him for no reason other than a surname." Wyllas blinks, his focus shifting back to his immediate surroundings, idly thumbing a pink sun-bleached rag tucked into his belt. "I'll not accept such a fate." The crone eyes him knowingly.
"Ah, that's what it is. You had a smell about you."
"A smell? I suppose its been a while since the last stream." Wyllas gives a sniff under his arms and quickly pulls his face back.
"Heh, not that sort of smell, though you could use a wash, dear. I smell fate on you."
"Such a thing can be smelled?"
"Not by all, dear. Only silly old ladies like myself. I'll keep you no longer, go on now. It's a big world, best get to exploring it.
"Yes, a big world, and I plan to be part of it. I plan to make a name for myself." Wyllas steps from the tent, nodding politely toward the crone.
"Heh...fate. A funny thing. You have a purpose, you shall discover your future, and a you will live a story young Wyllas." The crone says after the tent flap falls away, obscuring the young man from view.
Backstory:
Wyllas's family had, for many generations, kept their heads down and dedicated themselves to working their farm. But not Wyllas, he had always yearned to do something more with his life, to see beyond the windswept rocky hills that penned him in. One night after a particularly intense verbal sparring with his father, he made up his mind to leave home.
Standing in the doorway of the small hut he had known as both a home and a prison, Wyllas inhaled the smell of manure and smoke one last time and shut the door behind him. He hadn't made it much further than the sheep pen when his father called his name. He turned, feeling like a dog caught digging under a fence. Standing under the moon in the cold, blustery night father and son stood looking at each other for some time before the older man broke the silence.
"Do not forget us." He said, extending his hand to offer Wyllas a worn pink rag. No not a rag, Wyllas knew, a ribbon. The very same his father had tied in his mother's hair all those long years ago. By the river, ribbon waving in the wind, his father had promised to protect her forever. Now that protection sat in the calloused palm of his hand.
"Father..."
"No need to explain. I won't understand."
Wyllas took the ribbon, and then his father, into his embrace.
"Go, now. Before you change your mind." The old man said after a few beats, breaking off the embrace.
Blinking back tears, Wyllas said goodbye, turning from his father and toward the wide world.
