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?))
Drila hesitated before taking a seat on the cushion, attempting to shake the mud and moss from his boots. Settling in, he cast a wary glance around the dimly lit tent, illuminated by the flickering candles that floated eerily in the night air.
Turning his body to face the hag, Drila met her gaze with a mix of caution and intrigue, unsure of what to expect in this peculiar place.
"Not going to lie, I didn’t expect such a warm welcome from a place like this—no offense," He remarked, leaning back with a cautious yet fixed stare. Drila’s gaze wandered to the suspended candles, his curiosity piqued. "It seems fate has a way of leading us to unexpected places."
The stranger then addressed the hag directly, his voice steady but laced with concern. "I’m here because of troubling signs in my village. Some good people have disappeared, and my journey has brought me to this... lovely town."
Furrowing his brows, Drila recalled the hag’s earlier comment about expecting them. "You said you were expecting me? Can you tell me more about these disappearances and disturbances? It seems you might know more than you’re letting on." Drila crossed his arms, leaning back as he awaited her response, a frown etched on his face.
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