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.”
Metal plates creak and groan as the figure takes the seat. Her legs bunch up, knees pulled to the chest in the only manner fitting with the burdensome set they wield. Her eyes, concealed beneath black cloth, fall to the old woman's, taking note of her expression.
"The story repeats as the dwindling sun grows. My life brings me to those who've skewed Fate's scale; The unjust souls." She would stare into the woman's face. A moment passes, and the armored figure continues, helm-stare unmoving. "Is there guilt upon your heart?
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