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?))
"It had started months ago," he said, his voice quiet but steady. "He'd been traveling through the eastern woods, tracking someone—or something. People had called it a monster, but he hadn’t believed that. Not at first." He paused, his fingers absently tracing the scar that ran across the empty socket where his eye had once been.
"It was supposed to be a simple hunt. He’d had his crew with him—good people, people he trusted. They’d tracked it through the thickest parts of the forest, deeper than anyone dared to go. Days passed, and the deeper they went, the more twisted everything became. The trees weren't right. The animals weren't right. And at night, they started hearing things. Whispers… laughter."
He rubbed his face, as if trying to clear away the memory, though it was as fresh as if it had happened yesterday. "Then they found it. Or rather, it found them. He’d never gotten a good look, but it tore through them like they were nothing. His crew… they were gone before they even knew what hit them."
He swallowed, forcing himself to continue. "He fought it, but it was too fast, too strong. That was when he’d lost the eye. Clawed out of his skull like it was nothing. He should've died there with the others."
Across from him, the hag watched, silent, but he could feel her attention sharpening. "But he didn't. He woke up later, alone. Half-dead, blinded, but alive. And as he lay there, he heard it—the same voice he was hearing now." His gaze flicked around the tent, half-expecting to hear the whispering return.
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