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?))
I step into the tent and the damp air clings to my black outfit like it wants to keep me here. The candles floating overhead throw warm light across my hands, steady hands, even if my pulse isn’t.
At twenty-two, I’ve learned that fear is just another thing you carry.
I glance once at the hag, then at the cushion. I sit, straight-backed, shoulders square. Brown hair still wet at the ends from the swamp mist. Brown eyes locked on hers—no bravado, just refusal to flinch.
“So you have been expecting me,” I say, voice low. “Then you already know my name.”
“I’m here because whatever this is curse, debt, fate, it followed me. And if you’ve been expecting me, then you’re either the one who sent it or the only one who knows how to stop it.
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