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.”
Pheobe steps into the tent, their glowing yellow eyes flickering as they take in the scene. The smell of rot and moss doesn't faze them; they seem almost at home in it.
The hag's words make them pause, and they tilt their head, studying her with an unsettling intensity. Slowly, they glide to the cushion, sitting with an eerie grace. "Stories are like shadows—hard to grasp, but if you must hear it... I am drawn to forgotten places, where secrets linger. This town reeks of such things."
Pheobe's voice is a soft whisper, yet it lingers in the air. "But you already knew that. Tell me, what do you see when you look at me?"
Their gaze locks onto hers, curious and unblinking.
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