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?))
Jewel Hancock stumbled through the open tent doors, nearly collapsing, as sea water still drenched his form. Immediately on guard, discomfort shot through him as he questioned her prediction. He refused to sit, standing in the open entrance instead.
“My story?” He paused, before growing resolute. “My story is none of your damn business” He fumbled over what to call the figure before him. “L-lady? Just point me toward the nearest pub.”
Somewhat partial memories flooded his mind, of salt, and sea. Nights aboard a broad ship alongside his crew. Scattered drunken nights, and screams of terror. Something had happened; something he didn't entirely recall.
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