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?))
You take a careful look around the tent, drinking in the greatest amount of information you can find during that split-second hesitation before taking a step into the place. You can't say that floating candles are quite a normal sight, but while others would freeze with fear, you feel the warm, familiar curiosity crawl under your skin. Jars and pots of withered plants and dried flowers decorate the corners and tabletops, and you wonder if you could take a few of them for the road - if not for your lovely garden, then as a souvenir.
The dusty pillow in the ground invites you to sit, and despite the sudden chill inside the tent, you kneel down and look at the hag, clutching your hands nervously together.
"I ain't got much of a story, my lady. I come from a nameless village near Númendil, of farmers and gardeners. A sickness took over the village, and I went away to try and find something to cure it. I did find, but... it was too late for my mother. I was happy that others could recover, but the stench of failure never left my hands. You should never make a promise you can't keep, but I vowed to always try and help others. And if I must bleed to do so, then I shall paint the ground red."
You look up, sadness and resolve swirling in your dark brown eyes as you stare at the hag, awaiting for her answer.
Recommended Comments