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?))
"I... I've come to see you."
"Many do."
I clear my throat and let out the nerves with a deep sigh. "I heard word of you and your- er, abilities- from some merchant up north," I start. "They say you have the power to see potential? You see, I've spent... a considerable amount of time... running. Exploring, searching, if you will. Words mean little to me. Spoken ones, at least." I reach into a tattered bag slung over my shoulder, worn with age and elements, and unravel a slightly yellowed piece of paper. The hag raises an eyebrow.
"My family, the Rousseau family, own a publishing company. A very large publishing company. It's been a family tradition for thousands of years to have a newborne's destiny determined by a seer nearly right after birth. That destiny is written down with swan feather and blackberry ink on a roll of some of the finest paper produced in our factories."
The old woman's eyes moved from the paper to my face. I knew she understood.
"I didn't get a destiny. I've been told its a blessing, and I've been told it's a curse, but the only one who's told me anything different is myself. I say I have a chance, but I don't know at what yet."
"Ah..." The old woman closes her eyes and a tight-lipped grin shifts the wrinkles of her old face.
"I want you to tell me where to go now. Certainly anyone who can see potential is more useful than some crone who claims to see the future of a child barely out of the womb." The woman eyes me slyly. It sends a shiver down my spine. "I... I want friends, woman. I want to be free of the weight of the nothingness on this paper."
"I can't say I don't sense something brewing in you, child." Her words sink my heart. I remind myself they are just words, unconstrained, with little meaning outside written form, they mean nothing to me, they-
"But... what I can say, is that you have much potential. More than I've seen in... well, a while. What can I say? Who am I to determine how you use it. I'm just here to tell you it's there."
A new strength, like a breeze, blows through my spirit at her reassurance, rattling something deep inside. Awakening a part of me that had long been asleep. Perhaps, she was right.
~~~
Reyne's clothing plays a large part in showing her story - expensive, foreign styles and gold accessories hint at her family's wealth, but their faded nature reflects her drifting from that old identity.
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