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?))
Days of traveling had left the Dark Elf tired, homesick and running out of dried foods. But seeing the town from a distance, no matter how decrepit, had filled her chest with a bit of reprieve. She was no stranger to questionable individuals and the scent of rotting wood, and there was no doubt this place was not harboring secrets, secrets she would like to unfold. Something glistened in her peripheral, red eyes trailing towards the light of a raggedy tent, the balmy air sticking to her skin. Following the light like a crow to shiny objects, Maven lifted the flap of the tent and was met with levitating candles that appeared as if they were being held by the dead, and a strange old crone that sat in the center. How could she possibly have been expecting her? And then asking her to sit? This was some kind of scam, she just knew it, anyone could be a "you."
"Before I lament to you about my story how about you offer me some food in return, and only then shall I entertain the idea." She spoke montone, placing her hand at her belt defensively.
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