Qwelled

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?))
 

Kozlov's gaze drifts passively from the candles, to the old woman as she addresses him, and then to the cushion. His eyes linger on the cushion for a few heavy seconds, and he blinks. He seats himself, as instructed, and leans forward to face the woman, his gaunt, stern features illuminated clearly by the candlelight. "My name is Kozlov," he starts, his voice measured and deliberate. "I lived with my uncle, chopping wood, trapping animals to sell their hides. Before that, I lived with my father." Kozlov's eyes turn away from the old crone, resting on the gently flickering flame of one of the surrounding candles. Seconds pass in silence, Kozlov remaining hunched forward as though he was to continue recounting his story after collecting whatever thoughts he had. His eyes flick back to the old woman, and he continues in the same flat, even tone he spoke in before. "That man, inscrutable as he is, understands the world in a way I can't, and never will should I remain with my uncle, learning his trade." Kozlov leans back, sitting up straight as he looks the old woman straight in the eyes. "That leads me to people like you. Will you tell me what you know?"