vib1ngg

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?))
 

Foucault gave the woman a gentle smile and knelt on the proffered cushion. If the dirtiness of his surroundings bothered the boy, he did not show it in the slightest. In truth, he had crouched before in dirtier places than this.

"I must confess, you've caught me at a disadvantage, for I held no such expectations for our meeting. I came only to seek shelter from the night and perhaps a softer patch of ground to rest on-- it has been a long journey. Truthfully, I had no intention of so rudely intruding upon your home without invitation, but I hope that you will forgive me." His smile took on a more sheepish slant and he fiddled absent-mindedly with the simple pendant around his neck. "... As for a story, I'm afraid I must beg forgiveness again. There's truly nothing to tell, I am but a mere preacher on a pilgrimage to know the lands given to humanity by our Creator. My life before now, it is of no consequence."

He shrugged his shoulders. "I would be grateful if you allowed me to stay until morning. And food would not be unwelcome, anything you could spare." His stomach gave an audible rumble, and he winced, embarrassed.