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?))
With a soft creak from their wooden sandles gradually echoes the floor, the farfolk quietly cranes their neck upwards, gazing at the dim but mesmerising warmth. Their sight then lays on the old hag with a glimsp of wariness. Their voice rolled out in a wave of hushes, almost too soft as if it was intended to not be heard.
"Expecting?"
They bowed, politely but their eyebrows furrow upon meeting the hag's face. They then reluctantly rest on the cushion, the conical hat tipping down. The dim lighs couple with their hat shadow their own expression. Hardened, they mutters distantly.
"I'm just a passerby."
The words mix in softness and hesistance, unfettered by the welcoming warmth of the light. The farfolk averts their gaze from directly landing on the crone's face, rather, it passes the crone's shoulder, into the depth of the tent. Both their hands position on their lap, fingers twiddling shyly.
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Their figura model attached !
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