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?))
With a suspicious look as to how the old woman seemingly knows me, I reluctantly sit down, as she looks harmless. "I hail from the far North. I've come to these lands to make a name for myself without the help of my family; as my older brother has, my father, and his father. It's a family tradition."
Recommended Comments