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?))
Noura flicks her hair over her shoulder, eyes trailing towards the lady in-front of her. She offers the woman a gentle smile, her freckles pressed against the pulling of her flesh. “You’ve been expecting me?” Noura tilts her head the side, gently seating herself on the velvet-silk of a pillow cushion. “I suppose I can give you the time.” A soft giggle slips through her lips.
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