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?))
Hesitation. Lagged and unfocused eyes taking an uncomfortably long time to focus and adjust to the woman, his body kept unsteady and tense. He regarded the cushion briefly, sitting only by a presumed necessity. Hands folded over his knees, back laying against the wall. "Oh," Scratchy and dry; dehydrated. "My story?" Dry lips shifted to the beginnings of a grin; Cheshire. "For how much?"
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