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.”
"Whe-...where am I? And who are you?" The still heat of the candles form a single bead of sweat, riddling me with goosebumps as it trickles down my back. I feel as though I could faint for a moment, taking a seat on a weathered oak chair across from the mysterious old hag. "What do you mean my story?"
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