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.”
Ta'lea stood over the old woman, looking down at her wrinkled face and hunched back. Her face was aged, but how old she truly was could not be determined. Gnarled hands rested upon a faded velvet cloth, one hand gripping a carven tankard and the other holding a small leather pouch. An unmistakable air of intrigue surrounded her, and her recognition of Ta'lea caused the young woman to stop and pause. She swept back her hood to reveal rolling tresses and coils of dark brown hair, tangled from days on the road, and a weather worn face that was dotted with freckles and spatters of mud. Eyes of deep green narrowed in her head as she eyed the hag, lowering herself down onto a stump across from the woman. She faked a smile and a courteous nod, but beneath her cloak her right hand rested on the hilt of her dagger. Whoever this woman was, she had a magic about her, and magic was dangerous.
"It seems you might know story, woman, if you recognize me," she said, "but if the tale is to be told it should be told by one who has lived it, not seen it from afar through whatever magics you possess." Her left hand wandered to the top of the table, where lay a small pitcher of what looked to be a brown ale. She gestured to it and the empty cup next to it, wordlessly asking if she could partake. When the old woman had nodded in return, she poured herself a small cup and drained it quickly. It was rancid, near as foul as muddy rainwater, but it put a fire in her chest and renewed her spirits, even if she knew she would later pay for drinking it.
"My story...my story is the same as all who wander these lands. War, and all that follows it. Famine, plague, bandits. My family torn asunder and every mark we left upon the land turned to dust. My story is one of sadness and one of pain, but it is the same story as everyone else in this accursed place. I am no different than the woman who left this tent before me, nor the one before her, not in how my story has unfolded. But...but I may yet be, if you aid me. You are said to have been blessed with foresight, and it is for that I have sought you out. Because I have had no say in how my story has been told thus far...but I will have a say in how it ends."

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