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.”
Walter hesitates for a moment before taking a seat on the cushion. "How do you—" he starts to retort, but then stops mid-sentence. In his desperate situation, it was probably best not to question this peculiar woman. "If you really must know, I took a wrong turn too many and was ambushed by a pack of wolves. This was the closest town out of the woods and my only hope to get those monstrous animals off of my trail. As for my story, my father was a banker and my mother, a tailor." It was no wonder why he dressed so well. "I grew up in the city, which is a far cry from this rancid place." He was a hard-working, studious man too, which probably showed in the dark circles under his eyes. "Now if you're going to badger me with more questions, could you at least have the decency to offer me a drink?"
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