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?))
Melas, exhausted to the point of delirium, turned quickly, ensuring that her words were for him. His legs ached, the skin in between his toes had surely peeled and cracked. "They said you'd be here." He obliged her command, and sat, though not comfortably with his hip. He couldn't look her in the eye as he prepared the speech he had been rehearsing on his long walk from Númendil. He hoped he would be ready, but what he had to say was just too personal. "I'm a thinker" There was no going back now "I think I could change our world." Now. Now he had the strength to look her in the eye "I believe that, from the Aeltarys to Haelun'or, our lives could be better. I'm Malas."
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