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.”
Rita's upper lip curled in disgust, her eyes shooting daggers at the appallingly dirty cushion. "...If you insist," she snorts begrudgingly, plopping down hard with arms crossed. Her chin raised, a pensive look spreading across her face. "I've had no such contact with anyone-- let alone an old crone such as yerself," the red-haired lass growled. "Ent got the time for your phony prophecies.." Rita said, her voice trailing as the woman returned her gaze.
"I've no prophecies for the likes of you.. Now, do as you're told," the elderly woman replied with a flick of her wrist.
The highlander slapped a hand on her thigh and leaned forward, formulating the coming words in her mind. "Ayyeh- Grew up in Haense, left.. and now sit in this goddamned tent with the likes of you!" the lass retorted, teeth slightly bared. She looked up, still hunched over, and stared deep into this woman's eyes, her pupils shrinking to slivers.
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