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 nodded as she motioned to the cushion, setting myself on top of it. “Well, to start, my name’s Atticus. I used to live in this quaint village surrounded by woodlands. It was always so peaceful, either it be midday when the townsfolk would get together to exchange goods, or when it was evening and all the families would see each other once again after a hard day at work.” I paused, pondering on how to continue, as if attempting to grasp onto a faint memory. “There was a big storm, that’s something I’m sure on. It started off with just a light drizzle, then the wind started to pick up, giving a more rough tone to the occurrence… it continued like that until the power grew to disastrous proportions and began to knock over the old oak trees, demolishing houses as they fell over. Everyone evacuated to the north side beaches, but that wasn’t enough. Branches flew across the land and hit my boat as I was escaping, knocking me out as well as grinding my boat down to just a few planks.” I explained, fiddling with my hands as I spoke. “And then I woke up… and I’m here!” I looked up, no longer fiddling and waiting for the old woman to answer.
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