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?))
“You’ve been expecting me? Really, I’m flattered.”
With a faint, friendly smile on Wren’s face, she tucks her dress beneath herself politely to sit down. She folds her hands in her lap delicately while she watches the old woman, keeping a keen eye on how she moves.
“I’m sure introductions may be in order, but I won’t keep your curiosity starved.”
The way Wren speaks is almost like her voice is permanently coated in a layer of sweet, sweet sugar. Her tone is soft and forgiving, but her words are like daggers, precise and straight to the point.
”Would you like me to start from the beginning? I cannot promise everything I say will be true, but I’m sure you knew that before I even stepped in here, didn’t you?”
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