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?))
Rheya goes to sit down on the cushion, sitting on her knees. "Well...where should I start..." She would ponder a bit before continuing. "...my mother and father were both artists, my mom made jewelry and my dad made jewelry. I guess because of that, my whole life I've spent trying to find my own craft, since there is so much art around me. I don't think there is a story to share about me quite yet..." She paused. "...I don't think I have lived long enough to have a story, but I've come here to make a story, and a name, for myself."
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