Cinnabyn

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.”

((How do you respond?))

"I'm... not sure, I..." Celyn says hesitantly, "I... don't know. I was on the road with my auntie, and..."

Her eyes seem to glaze over as she stares off absentmindedly, attempting to recall some facet of her journey. A few moments pass before she snaps to attention and, embarrassed at her lapse, accepts the offer of a seat. 

"My auntie, Elwith.. Has she come by this way yet? We were travelling together and then we..." Perturbed, she looks up at the old woman. "Did you say you were expecting me? I'm sorry, do I... Have we met before?"

The hag watches with no response. Celyn shuffles her weight on the uncomfortable cushion. She feels the stranger's eyes burning a hole in her, pressing down like the point of a needle. The silence is cut by a distant owl somewhere in the shanty-town calling out for its mate in the darkness.

"Go on," says the woman. "Speak."

The words carried a weight to them and Celyn found her mouth opening before she could process her thoughts. "We traveled far," she blurted, before covering her mouth with her hands. It was not her decision to talk, nor was it her decision to make. Across from her the wrinkled, dried bark of the hand belonging to the now expectant host flicks casually as if brushing away a leaf. Celyn's hands fall to her side as she is encouraged, somehow, to speak further. 
 

"From the Valley of the Rich Hills, we... We came from there."

"Hm. A tawdry girl from a tawdry place. Tell me, child, why you left."

The words hit her like a punch to the gut as her mind regurgitated lighting flashes of her travels. Her memories were blurred and foggy, like a still-fresh painting wiped with a cloth, leaving only vague shapes and feelings.

Eyes. A familiar room. Fields. Barleywheat broth in a turned Oak bowl. Red. The stream she used to play in. Smoke. The dull sound of rock falling on rock. Family. An unbearable heat. Darkness.

"My family is dead."

A tear formed, swelled and then fell upon her cheek. The words were foreign to her: She couldn't, or didn't, remember entirely why she left. Another fat tear falls, followed by more in a subsequent stream. 

"My family is... dead. My home..." She sniffed, balling her hands into fists on her lap, "...is gone. There was a fire, I think, out by the forge. The grass was dry, and... I don't know, but, it's gone. It's all gone." 

She felt stupid for crying in front of a stranger. Anger bubbled in the pit of her stomach as her tears continued to flow. More potent was the anger at herself; How could she not remember such a thing? And why was it that, in the tent of some roadside charlatan in the middle of the night, she now could not seem to stow the memories away? Each passing second delivered a once buried sensation that the sobbing farmhand quickly realized was repressed for a reason. 

The smell of iron. The sound of hoof-beats on grass and earth. Metal on metal on metal clanking in rhythm like a marching army of pots and pans. Eyes. An unforgiving heat. Stumbling over roots and tools to reach a silhouette by the flames. The familiar scent of her aunt's clothing undercut by acrid smoke. The screaming of animals. Eyes. Bruised feet running along uneven terrain. Eyes. In the darkness. Eyes. 

The hag lent forwards. She smelled of sandalwood and balsam with an undertone of peat. Celyn was unsure as to if she were a woman at all, or at least a human one. 

"What of the Elwith you speak of? You travel with her: Why?"

"Because she's all I have left!" 

A terrible silence. 

Celyn crumpled to the floor of the tent, weeping uncontrollably. Her heart was bolting like a frightened horse. It was as if she had been a rope under tension cut down in one swift motion, left to fall into a heap. She lay there sobbing for a while, lost in grief, until the stranger broke the quiet with a heavy sigh. 

"Very well, tawdry girl. Leave. Go and live your tawdry life elsewhere. Cry, if you must, but do not sully my floor with your pathetic woe."  Her voice was foreign, hollow, unnatural. Bored. 

Like a rag doll, Celyn's body rose to its weary feet. She caught a glimpse of the hag from tear-soaked eyes; The woman seemed profoundly disappointed. Not at her guest, per se, just a general sense of discontentedness at the world. With a flick of her withered hand she made the sniveling traveler about-face and make for the exit. As she watched Celyn leave, she called out:

"Oh, and fear naught for your Elwith. She is well. You'll find her just up the road in the direction you were headed. Our conversation was equally short. The next time you are faced with peril, be useful and remember the details. I am not here to be bored by the mundane driveling of peasants, nor am I to be deceived by squandered potential. Be gone from my life, creature, and think not of this event nor my face ever again."

-------------------

Walking along the road, Celyn spotted her auntie reading a signpost in the brambles just ahead. Odd, she thought, she was certain that they were side by side only moments ago. The mind wanders on long journeys, she supposed. Her eyes stung and her mouth was dry. Perhaps it would be prudent to find a tavern of sorts, she thought to herself. As she called out for Elwith and walked to the lively tune of crickets and frogs, the young woman determined that she would have quite enjoyed the travel along this stretch of road if not for the seemingly ever-present and uncomfortable smell of sandalwood, balsam and a slight hint of peat.