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?))
I stare at my aunt's glass eye, stale and unmoving, it distracts me for a second before I am brought back to a cold reality. "As you know, my parents have passed; they could not make it out when our house caught on fire." I state bluntly, having become numb to the situation I found myself in. "I was homeless for a week before the city could arrange for my transportation to you." As I wait for a response I am suddenly hit with a wave of noxious air. I feel tired, I was unable to sleep on the long journey to my aunt's; traveling on unpathed paths; and the cushion is surprisingly comfortable.
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