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.”
Your eyes drift to see the cushion, depicting each fabric that was laced into it. Clearing his throat, he made eye-contact with the lady, "What do you mean, it's you?" You shivered at the thought of her wanting you to sit down. Eventually you sit down, tensing up instantly; "What is your story? We all have one." The smells filled your nose, making it scrunch up trying to block out the stench. The aroma of the candles begins to bother you, your senses hate almost everything about this room; and begin to gain a headache. . . You wait for the ladies response, and respond of your own; "Even if I were to give you a story, it'd be a waste of time; it's not like I would meet you again." Standing up, removing yourself from the tent, and back into the rotted forest, stuffing your cape in-front of your body to keep warm as you walk away.
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