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?))
She nods in acknowledgement, observing the abode. With a deep breath she musters the courage to speak. "Forgive my tardiness." . . . "I prefer to write, is that all right with you?"
"My eyes are not what they used to be. Speak up a bit."
Melora takes a deep inhale once more, focusing on untensing. "I've traveled a great distance. You were once a great friend of my older brother, were you not? Then you must know, he was murdered some years ago." She begins to fidget with her fingers, avoiding eye contact. "I was falsely accused of his...death, before I knew it, I was locked in for a crime I did not commit. My friend in the guard had come to me in the middle of the night. They helped me escape the town and shortly after was executed for aiding me." Melora looks back to the elder, trying to interpret the woman's facial expression. "In recent endeavors, I've created a new name for myself. My brother-- He was supportive of my ambitions. I wish to become a performer of sorts. My only hope is that I've traveled far enough where the Bancroft name will no longer haunt me."
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