SaintBell

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?))

"And why should I tell you?" She spoke firmly -- coldly. Narrowed eyes glancing over the hag, evidently pessimistic at their intentions. She didn't dare sit. Who wouldn't be in a place like this? 

The old hag's lips curled, finger-nails tapping eerily at the walking-stick she held so dearly. There was some amusement, some implication she had expected that answer. "You find yourself here, of all places. Do you not think that some fate befalls you? To end up here, to end up talking to me."

Apprehension settled in the woman's eyes, sourly suckling at the inner of her cheek. It took a moment for her to bite back her tongue, teeth bared between offered words. An attempt at composure. "What do I get in return, for offering you my story? You do not know me, I do not know you. It's hardly smart."

A long hum was offered, contemplation. The hag stalked about the tent, proceeding to click forward. Walking stick in tow, boots tapping between considered words. Whispering words. "Well, I already know yours, if you like it or not. I just find it polite to ask." 

Her nostrils flared some, dim gaze watching over the woman. Anxious steps were made back-wards, daringly glancing back. She shook her head. "You know nothing about me, so don't offer me anything."

Slowly, the hag arched around. Bit by bit, she closed in. Beady dark eyes bore into Eleanor, hands finally resting at the top of her walking-stick. "You think you'll end up like your mother, yes?"

Her features flickered. What composure that remained began to quiver, lip twitching as she swallowed shallowly. A breath followed through nervous lips, eyes pricking as she rasped out hushed -- angry words. "I am /not/ her. I will not be like her -- it is not the same." 

A tilt was offered from the crone, cracking between urged words. A somber cackle was offered, gesturing towards the tent door. Cane casted towards it. "You won't, for now."

Something inside Eleanor refused to look away, stinging eyes boding into the cackling hag. Defiance, caught between falling tears. She stepped back again, this time to the tent's curtains -- trembling fingers tearing them loose. She offered a final ire filled glance, hissing out. "I won't, ever."