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.”
"Well uh-" I stared at her for a moment, "I was in a cult full of canonists, in a small town called Alton" I toyed with the button of my vest, "If- if you were born into the town by one of the members, you were forced to be apart of it all." I paused, shaking by the though of it all, "Everybody thought there was no escape, until a group of members rebelled against the leaders of the cult. They started a fire to the buildings and stabbed people with daggers." I shook my head in sorrow, "I was terrified. So I fled to the wilderness and survived for a month with barely anything other than a dagger I picked up from the riot. It was hell. Then I eventually found this place and am still recovering from the hell I endured." He finished, staring at the old hag with a blank expression, taking a sip from a glass of cider.
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