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?))
You step cautiously into the tent, brushing droplets of rain off your cloak. The scent of wet moss and burnt sage clings to the air. With a tired exhale, you lower your hood, revealing leaves tangled in your dark hair and skin speckled with flecks of golden pollen.
—My name is Motha — you begin, voice soft but steady. — I come from the firefly groves, where the light never truly fades. I was raised among whispering trees and watched over by spirits older than history. There, I learned to listen. To roots, to dreams, to the sick and the wounded.
You kneel onto the cushion, carefully untying a small satchel at your waist. From within, you pull a vial filled with swirling green liquid, setting it between you and the hag. Your black cat, soaked from the rain, slinks in behind you and curls at your feet.
—I heal. I guide. I see. But there’s a crack in my craft. Some potions, meant to restore… instead take life. I’ve brewed death into a remedy more than once. They call it a curse. I call it a burden. — You look up, meeting her eyes. — But I came here not to run from it. I came to understand it. To master it. My people need me sharp. Strong. Balanced. I will not fail them.
The hag stares for a moment longer, then leans forward as the candles flicker with a gust of wind. Somewhere in the distance, a raven cries. The cat purrs lowly.
You sit still, waiting.
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