Your character has just arrived in a swampy, dim town. As they look around, their gaze is met with shacks and cabins. It smells of rotted wood and wet moss. They 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?))
Ayda stood frozen for a moment, unsure how to respond. She shouldn't trust a creepy old hag in an even creepier tent—but curiosity had a way of dragging her into poor decisions. Her eyes flicked to the cushion. Reluctantly, she lowered herself onto it, slow and cautious, like a wild animal unsure if it had wandered into a trap. She folded her hands in her lap, avoiding the hag’s gaze.
“My, uh... my story?” she echoed, her voice quiet and uneven. “Well, not like it’s really your business, but…”
She took a breath- regretting it immediately. The tent stank of rot and melted wax, the kind of smell that clung to the back of the throat. It made her long for home and the cleaner air that came with it.
“My parents were stuck-up brats. They planned my whole life out for me- every step scheduled, every turn decided.” Her lips curled slightly, more bitter than amused. “So I left. Went looking for real work... good work. Traveled pretty far.” She glanced toward the tent’s flap, nose wrinkling. “Far enough to end up in this dump, apparently.”
She crossed her arms and shifted, suddenly restless.
“I miss my house,” she admitted. “But not my parents.”
A frown tugged at her brow as she looked back at the woman, studying the weathered face across from her.
“Not sure why I’m even telling you this,” she muttered. “You talk like you know me...” Her voice trailed off as she raised an eyebrow. “But I’ve never seen you before. Have we met?”
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