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?))
"How would you possibly know who I am?, This raises a question of who you are, along with why you are here in this rundown hellhole. This place is distasteful and Reeks of rot." As I had spoken to the old hag I would cautiously examine the female, My violet eyes slowly glancing around the interior of the tent along with gazing over her presence. It was quite clear that I was not trusting in whom this stranger is, and as to of how they know me. As I begin to approach the cushion my right hand would slowly rest against the hilt of my blackened dagger hidden within its sheath, my eyes never leaving the hag just to be weary of her movement.
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