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.”
Atlis pauses at the entrance of the tent, pushing the damp hood of his moss-colored cloak back from his head. The scent of swamp water and candle wax mixes in the still air. For a moment he studies the floating candles, his forest-green eyes narrowing slightly, then he steps forward with the quiet confidence of someone used to stranger things than magic.
The leather of his boots creaks softly as he lowers himself onto the cushion.
His sword rests at his side, the scabbard touching the ground, and the familiar weight of his dagger and utility belt settles at his hip. One hand absently brushes the small wooden leaf pendant at his chest before he begins to speak.
“Strange,” he says in a calm, steady voice, “Most who claim to expect me don’t live in places like this.”
He glances briefly toward the tent entrance where swamp fog drifts past, then back to the old woman.
“My name is Atlis. A woodworker by trade… a traveler by necessity.”
He folds his hands together, rough fingers marked by carving cuts and bowstring wear.
“I come from the deep forests far north of here. My people live quietly—cut only what we need, shape the wood with care, leave the rest to grow.”
He pauses slightly.
“But the forest has begun to change. Trees dying where they should not. Animals fleeing paths they have followed for centuries.”
His eyes lift to the candles floating above them.
“I followed the signs south. Tracks that vanish. Roots that rot from the inside. Every path, every rumor, eventually pointed here.”
Atlis leans forward slightly.
“So now I am in your town… in your tent… and you say you were expecting me.”
A faint, guarded half-smile touches his face.
“Which means you likely know more about why I’m here than I do.”
He rests his forearms on his knees, posture relaxed but alert.
“So tell me, old mother of the swamp… what is it you think I’ve come to do?”
