You’ve just arrived in a swampy, dim town. As you look around, your gaze is met with shacks and cabins. It smells of rotted wood and wet moss. You 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?))
**Isolde remains standing, ready to bolt at any second as she stares at the hag. The authority in the hag's voice, the strange circumstances of their meeting and her wicked glare serve to douse the indignity Isolde feels at being talked to like this.
**Isolde sits down, unwilling to tempt whatever power the hag has behind her. She keeps herself as close to the exit as she can and doesn't let the hag leave her sight.
"There's not much to my story. I was born in a dying village. The mine there had dried up and the earth was no good for any farming. Most moved out, my parents stubbornly remained, and I was left by myself when they passed." Her fingers dance along the old couch's arm as she recalls the sensation of watching her entire world slowly wither away in front of her. All of it, except the reclusive dwarf living down in the abbandoned tunnels. While her world ended he continued on living. Ever since then she's embarked on a quest to escape the fate that befell her town and her family, the fate that befalls all humans one day: death. Isolde doesn't tell this to the hag of course, she's not keen on broadcasting her intent to just anyone she meets.
Isolde chances another look at the entrance. The wind has picked up, blowing the flaps of the entrance against each other. The cold howling outside seems much more inviting than remaining under the hag's gaze. "Then I stumbled upon this place while travelling to somewhere that wasn't a ghost town, looking for work. That's my story."*
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