[shown on skin] fingerless gloves
Your character has just arrived in a swampy, dim town. As they look around, their gaze is met with shacks and cabins. It smells of rotted wood and wet moss. They 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?))
Lamprye pushes aside the tent flap, the scent of wet moss clinging to her cloak. She pauses, studying the HAG with wary eyes before sitting on the cushion.
“Expecting me, were you?” she says quietly, a hint of dry humor in her tone. “That’s new.”
“I don’t have much of a story worth telling. Just a girl who’s seen too many roads and trusted too few faces.” She exhales, glancing toward the flickering candles.
“But if fate dragged me here, I suppose I’m meant to listen as much as tell.” She adjusts her posture, now directly facing the hag. “I used to travel with others—merchants, wanderers. We followed blue lanterns into the fog one night. Lights that shouldn’t have been there.”
She exhales slowly, a tremor barely noticeable in her breath. “I was the only one who came back.”
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