Your character has just arrived in a swampy, dim town. As they look around, their gaze is met with shacks and cabins. It smells of rotted wood and wet moss. They 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?))
"Oh, I just, uh…" you stutter, tensing up. You eye the crone, then back outside the tent at the rotting shacks and the dim, swampy mist. For a moment, the air thickens with anticipation, until you find your voice.
"I am Aragon," you say, finally sitting on the cushion. "I came to this town seeking a way through this mire, not expecting to be known. If you have been waiting, then tell me—how do you know my face, and what is it you expect from me in a place that smells only of decay?"
The old hag leans her wrinkled face closer to the suspended candles, letting out a low chuckle that sounds like dry wood snapping.
"Names have echoes, Aragon," she rasps. "Echoes that ripple through the stagnant waters of this swamp long before their owner arrives. You didn’t stumble here by chance; the mud only clings to feet that have a destination."
She stirs an old wooden bowl, her eyes locking onto yours with unsettling focus. "You wonder how I know your face? The marsh whispers the secrets of strangers, and the air here carries more than just the scent of rot—it carries the scent of a tethered fate. You seek a way out, but you will only find it once you face whatever drove you into this dingy town to begin with."
She leans in further, whispering, "Sit. The story you are running from is the only map that will keep you from drowning in this mist."
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