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?))
 

At the hag's request, Alerys pauses, her eyes flickering momentarily to the tent's entrance (the reflex of one who has learnt never to turn her back on an exit). Inside, the air is dense and heavy, with a subtle taste of moss and wax in every breath.

She kneels slowly. A handful of fine sand, its pale grains glinting slightly in the candlelight, is pulled out of a little pouch at her belt by her hand. She uses a deliberate, almost ritualistic manner to spread it around the wet floor.

She draws an errant circle with two fingers. She follows a little figure inside it, followed by a larger one that looms over it. A single line connects them, then snaps halfway through with a sharp flick of her wrist, scattering the sand like broken glass.

For a moment, she just stares at what she’s made... then presses her palm flat into the centre, smearing it all away. The act seems deliberate, final.

When she finally looks up at the old woman, her silver eyes glimmer in the candlelight. She doesn’t speak (can’t even if she wanted to) but the message in her expression is clear enough: she’s not here to explain her past. Only to decide what comes next.