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?))
Erylwen ducked beneath the frayed flap of the tent without hesitation. Once inside, her eyes drifted upward toward the various candles dangling from above. Their flames bent from the inward draft from the flap opening, stretching thin and glowing brighter than a moment ago. Turning her attention back to the hag, she forced a cough into her elbow, her pointy elven ear twitching forward with intrigue as she looked down at the plush seat ahead of her that the old crone had gestured toward. Her wide almond-shaped eyes lit up as if the cushion was made of gold itself. "For me? I'm honored." Only after giving the tattered tent a once-over did she delve further in. Her scuffed, mud-caked boots left a trail of small footprints behind her. Suddenly, she stopped short of the cushion, instead shifting her weight onto the balls of her feet. Her brows knitted together as she took in her own disheveled attire. She knew the dingy tent was no better, but the expression of guilt that crossed her face made it apparent she felt like she'd dirty the worn cushion if she sat. Her deep-sage eyes relaxed a bit once she looked up at the witch once more, her demeanor changing entirely from the sullen yet bubbly girl moments ago. "I suppose if you were expecting me, then you already know who I am, no?"
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