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?))
I stare at her blankly, as if not processing the words she's spoken to me. With a dull gaze, I quietly take my place in the spot the elderly woman has offered to me. I stare at her before speaking, my throat horse from lack of water and lips so shriveled and dry you can see my pearly yellows a small amount even when my mouth is closed, "My story?..." I ask confused, staring at her, though I gain no response. Her unmoved stare is locked on me, and I cannot shake my discomfort. "My story, right. I used to live with my family, which was quite large. A month ago I decided I wanted to get away from them and make a bunch of money without realizing I struggle to survive on my own, going as far to say I can't. I had no plan, and am paying the price for my greed and stupidity." I stare at the old woman expecting to gain pity or a mocking tone however I am met with no response once again. Anger filling me from lack of conversation, I huff and crawl my way out of the tent before trying to slam the cloth entrance to no avail. Stomping away, I curse the unmoved wench under my breath.
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