Your character has just arrived in a swampy, dim town. As they look around, their gaze is met with shacks and cabins. It smells of rotted wood and wet moss. They 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 settle onto the cushion and feel it sigh beneath me. The candles flicker as if they are leaning in to listen, too. For a moment, I breathe in the swamp air: mud, mildew, and something faintly metallic. Then, I meet the hag’s gaze.
“Funny thing,” I say, brushing a smear of damp moss from my sleeve. “I didn’t plan on being here. The swamp pulled me in. Or maybe it spat me out. It’s hard to tell in places like this.”
I lean forward and rest my elbows on my knees.
“I’ve been walking for days. I followed signs that weren’t really signs, shadows that moved the wrong way, whispers that didn’t belong to any throat. Every path led me deeper until the trees started to look at me as if they knew my name.”
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