Burwik

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.”

I look towards the cushion gauging its cleanliness and ultimately I decide it would be rude not to sit. As the surprisingly soft cushion eases my travel-bound legs, I speak:
"Hello Madame, I have come here to this town to make a sound and respectful living for myself. A potion brewer born and raised."  I say as I portray a sense of honor with my statement. "I appreciate your hospitality, but what did you mean by you've been expecting me?"