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.”
"Please, ma'am, I haven't a good story," I say, looking around for an exit. It isn't as though I'm afraid; just deeply unsettled by the way the crone is staring at me.
"Oh, please, Oceanfall, I'm bored. Any story is a good story. Now, SIT."
Too afraid to disobey her again, I take a seat on the cushion, which was not as soft as I was expecting.
"Well, my father left me, which stinks. I don't know how often that happens, but it did. Then, I got kidnapped by dwarves when I was ten and spent four years in an dwarven prison. I fled, but I have no idea where my family is. It is my mission to find them. I will find my mother and my sister, if it kills me," I explain, my words getting stronger, more confident, with each passing setence.
"So much for a boring story, Oceanfall."
"That's my father's last name, Miss. I prefer Nem. That's my first name," I correct.
The crone nods, deeply impressed by something.
"Four years in a dwarven prison has done good on your arms, right Nem?"
I resist the urge to smile as she laughs. Though I am eighteen as of two days ago, I feel as though I must appear mature to be taken seriously.
"I think so, ma'am," is all I reply. I stand and exit the tent. It was the first time I'd told my story. I hoped it would not be my last.
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