puppetwitch

Your character has just arrived in a swampy, dim town. As they look around, their gaze is met with shacks and cabins. It smells of rotted wood and wet moss. They 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?))

Neth's nostrils flared for a moment; the comforting scent of moss mingled with the acrid stench of rotten wood was familiar, if not disappointing. The Elf nodded her head momentarily, choosing to stand rather than sit. She wasn't intent on lowering herself closer to the hag and kept her defenses up despite the disarming smile on her face. "What brings us anywhere, if not a search for purpose?" It was true enough, though she didn't intend to reveal the entirety of her travelling intentions. "Like the birds in the trees and the winds that carry them, I feel called to wander. What could be a more noble purpose than to explore the world in its entirety? I would feel the sun warm my skin in many places and witness things I have never seen before." Dodging the question was something she had learned from the grandmother, who was quite the storyteller, whether it came to chatting or chiding. She didn't like the sound of being expected but was no stranger to prophesiers and oracles, not that she ever believed in such a thing. Sometimes, sure, but often never convenient. "All that matters is that I am here."