Armitus

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?))

You take a cautious step into the tent, feeling the cool dampness of the air press against your skin. The flickering candlelight casts long shadows that dance across the crooked walls. You settle onto the cushion, feeling its dampness seep through your worn cloak. The old hag’s eyes narrow as she studies you, and you swallow hard, suddenly aware of the weight of her gaze.*

You: "I… I did not expect to be *here*." *Your voice is steady, but the uncertainty lingers.* "This town, this place—it feels… wrong. I have come seeking answers, though I'm unsure what question I need answered. There are too many. You see, I was born into odds most would deem impossible. A child of death, yet I live, and I wonder—why? Was it fate or a curse? The weight of survival has never felt like a blessing. But perhaps you know something of this. Perhaps you see what lies beyond this swamp, beyond the shadow of my doubts. I need to understand, old crone, why I am here and what I must do." 

*You pause, overseeing the hag, waiting for her to speak. The candle flames flicker in the still air as the world outside seems to fade into nothingness.