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.”
"My story?" I look at the old hag, the question lingering between us. I follow her wrinkled finger and place myself on the seat, the warmth oddly comforting. "My story is strange, but not at all intriguing; The town I've left behind would have engulfed me with the past." Although the words are sinister, the expression on my face remains sweet. I continue, "The forest surrounding our lands had decayed, and along with it our people's minds. We were the poison which ricocheted on the ivy. Now, I lead a path of peace, and the deeds which my town have done to me and to my home will motivate me to move forward."
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