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 have? How has one such as you got access to that kind of information?" I inquire, waiting for a tense moment I recognise I will get no information I so desperately seek from this hardy woman, she has the air of someone used to interrogation and sly half-truths, I stalk out of the tent and scan the town for any hawkers or bar goers likely to spill stories I so longingly seek, for a tale untold, a mystery unknown, all I know is it is a truth I must find and yet I have not a question to put it to
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