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?))
"... I remember a storm," Teren recalls, following a hesitant pause before seating himself in the tent. "Though, not much else." His eyes gaze over to the hag in the tent, fatigue washing over his form like the waves which had brought his body to shore. "I don't suppose this is the Undersea, is it? It's rather shabby."
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