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.”
The cushion is soft and plush as it spreads outwards under your weight. "Oh, c'rtainly. Wh're to beginneth though, t's a longenth tale, aft'r all" A gloved finger taps against the painted wooden mask before freezing up, head bowing forward apologetically. "Oh Mine apologies...Mine speech patterns tend to drift towards the more theatrical at times." Your head lifts back up as the masked face tilted to the side, silvery hair hanging from cracks between the hood and mask, words straining as if to conform to a speech pattern not used often. "If I were to be honest though, I'd rather hear your story, Madame... I do pride myself on having many stories to tell and sing to the world, but one such as you is sure to have plenty I could regale no?"
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