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?))
The dampness in the air causes me to wipe a few droplets of sweat off my forehead. My dress is somewhat soiled from the journey. The candlelit tent brings a sense of peace, allowing me to open up to this woman.
“I’m not much of an interesting girl, my story isn’t really unique at all,” I say with a small, self deprecating chuckle.
“Go on,” the old woman replies.
I sigh slightly, attempting to smooth my dirty dress with my hands to look more presentable.
“I was sick of living in a town full of drunkards and miners. My father was a baker, my mom died during childbirth. I plan to continue in his footsteps, but I just can’t stand that town. I feel lonely and lost without him, but I plan to send letters and hopefully receive them from him. I wanted to travel to some larger town or more urban area. I wanted more access to some hard to find ingredients. Due to not being able to raise many crops in my town’s harsh weather, we were stuck making just loaves of bread. Somewhere else, bigger, warmer, I can make pies and cakes and cookies and all sorts of things I’ve read about in recipe books but have never been able to make. I want to give myself the life my parents deserved and financially support myself and hopefully support my father as he gets older with the money I make. There’s a part of me that one day I want him to travel to my future home to live with me if I had enough money, I could take care of him then. That’s all I want,” I say as I twiddle my fingers sitting cross-legged on the floor.
“That’s my story.”
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