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?))
Andrew was staring at the floating candles, trying to spy any strings or anything that could be suspending them up, before moving his attention to the old woman as she demands him to sit. He does so, crossing his legs as he lowered himself onto the cushion. He responds, "I'm a traveler, ma'am, that came from what I can only describe as a small town. About a year ago, I started my travels, and along with rations and tools, I took this journal with me," Andrew paused as he opened up a pouch on his waist and pulled out a small leather-bound journal, the pages made from papyrus. It looked old. He slid it back into his pouch. "It's, uh, what I use to write my experiences and travels in. Anyway, I'm probably boring you with all this, so I suppose I'll be leaving you now." Andrew grunted as he got back onto his feet. "Have a good... whatever time it is, ma'am." He turned on his heel and walked out of the tent slowly, in an attempt to not seem impolite.
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