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?))
He placed a calloused hand onto the arm of the chair, relaxing himself back onto the seat as he attempted to conjure a thought into his troubled mind. He hadn't had a clue on how he ended up in the swamp of all places. Could it have been a night of bad drinking? No, he swore that off ages ago. Could it had been a troubled traveler, wishing for his demise as he swept him off his feet, and took him here? No. Couldn't be that, not in the least. He then brought in an idea, one that just shot into mind at first thought.
> "I have no memory of how I have arrived here.. last I remember I was tilling the fields for my father. The ox must have given me a hefty hit to the head, yeah?"
He chuckled out, his rough hand rubbing against the spot on his forehead. That must be it.. or it was the only thing he could tie to his thoughts. Kosma did not wish to stay here, he only wanted to go back home. He eyed the witch, with furrowed brows, knitted deeply in thought. Why had he even stepped in here to begin with, he hadn't known this stranger.
> "Have you any idea how to get back to Valdev? Mom must be worried about my absence."
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