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?))
Catherine’s eyes flicker around the tent, finally meeting the aging eyes of the old hag. She lets her hand drop down against her thigh, fidgeting with a fold of course green cloth. She stares at the hag, her gaze steady, yet clearly unnerved by the strange questioning. Catherine takes a moment to size up the hag, her green eyes unblinking and her posture unwavering. Finally, she sighs. “My name is Catherine Bowman,” she begins, “and now you shall hear my tale, for I see no reason for you not to. Not now. Nor after all that had happened…”
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