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?))
Ryvin warily glance around the ruined tent, eyes lingering on the decrepit walls and the way the shadows in it dance and flicker in an impossible manner before taking a seat in front of the weathered crone. They clear their throat briefly before beginning to speak. "Lady Oracle, I have come here today to seek out your wisdom. My liege has fallen ill and none of our healers methods have had any effect. Please, I beg of you, how can we save our lord?" Ryvin's voice trembles as he suppresses a sob.
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