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.”
oh what is there to tell i woke up a week ago with nothing but a silver dagger with a raven on its hilt and a note to go west i rembered nothing so i did what the note sed i whent west thure this swamp eating what i could find and killing a rabit for it fer wich i used to make a pouch it was so easy tho the strokes of the knife i feel i must have learned the blade in the past but as i walked i saw things in my mind of trees and caves and people of many races but that is all i know the quick flashs of what must be my past and so i walked for days until i ended up here and met u
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