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.”
~~~
"Expec'ing me, ey? T'is a curious t'ing t'e say, bu' 'ere we are." Bergamot murmurs, the sound of her voice thick with a half-smile that comes more out of habit than mirth.
She shifts her weight, feeling the cushion beneath her, and lean forward just a little, her eyes narrowing slightly as she considers the old woman before her. She knows that look in her eyes—knowing, calculating. The kind of look that makes a person feel like they’re being peeled back, layer by layer, until there’s nothing left but the truth.
"I’m Bergamo'," She says, the name heavy on her tongue. It’s a name that has served her well, though it doesn’t carry the same weight it used to. "And I’ve come from far, far a'waeh. Though' I’d put t'e pas' be'ind me... bu' there’s alwa'ehs a way t'e ge' to te bones, isn’ t'ere?" she says.
Bergamot pauses, the words forming slower than she intend. Her fingers tighten slightly around the edge of her satchel, but she dares not look down. There are secrets she carries with her, ones she buried deeper than anyone could guess, or so she thought.
Bergamot says "I’ve 'eard wi'spers about a t'ing called the Nighes-Aye," she continues, her voice low, carrying just enough weight to make sure she knows I'm not playing games. "And I’ve seen tings—strange dreams tha' aun-t t'e edges of sleep, voices in te wind, calling me."
Bergamot's gaze shifts from her face to the shadows in the corners of the tent, the flickering candlelight making everything feel a little too fluid, a little too alive.
"I t'oug I’d find some'ing 'ere," she says softly, a strange mix of longing and resolve filling the space between them. "Some answer. Some purpose. Bu mos'ly, I’m wondering wa’s t-come."
The air between them thickens, and she feels it—a kind of pull, as if the very weight of this moment is bending the world around them. She's not foolish enough to think she is the first one to walk through these swamps looking for something. She is sure there are others who’ve come before her, drawn by the same voice, the same promise. But she knows she won't be the last.
Bergamot looks back at the hag, her face a study of patience and mystery.
"So," she adds, the question hanging in the air between them, "W'a now, crone? Wa’s my par in tis?" Bergamot asks.
And she waits, feeling the answers stir in the space between them, unsure of whether the answers will be a gift or a curse.
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