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 sit down, smiling at her softly as I start "My story is a simple one. I am just a traveler, raised on a farm, far in the south. I have Slavic roots." I lean forward, tilting my head a bit. There is a hint of lie behind my gaze but I look away, continuing: "I am no warrior. I decided to wander the world to meet new people and to hear their stories." This time, I am telling the truth. "I was even considering building a small tavern by the road, to hear what other wanderers have to say. But maybe I will stay on the road." I lean back, still smiling. "I can't wait to see what this world has to offer."
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