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?))
Serapis eyes the cushion, considering whether the whole thing is trap. After all, there hasn't been a single peaceful moment in this town. Nothing's happened, but he smells a rat. But the old hag seems sincere-- had she been smiling, it would've been a different story. But her eyes widen towards him, and her head raises. He raises the hem of his pants and sits. "There's not much of a story to tell, I'm afraid. I've been travelling for a while, place to place as a traveler does. I've seen many places, met many people, all that." His chin finds his hand, and he peeks at the hag between hair far too overgrown. "So, you'll have to get more specific then that."
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