“…My story?” you repeat softly, easing onto the cushion. At 6’2”, your frame feels almost too large for the cramped tent. Your hand brushes the frayed edge of the red scarf around your neck, the last gift from your family. Amber eyes flicker toward the hag, then back to the drifting candles.
“I was born in a quiet village—just a man, nothing more. But I was marked by suspicion, treated as if I carried misfortune everywhere I went. No matter what I did, no kindness could change their minds. So I left, carrying only this scarf and the memory of what home used to mean.”
The hag tilts her head, studying you with sharp, glinting eyes. A dry smile curves her lips.
“Ah, a man chased by shadows not of his making. You search for belonging, yet carry exile with you like a cloak. The world does not cast you out without reason… perhaps your steps here were no accident.”
The candles waver as if stirred by unseen breath, and the air grows heavier—waiting on what you’ll say next.
"Oh, I just, uh…" you stutter, tensing up. You eye the crone, then back outside the tent. For a moment, the air thickens with anticipation, until…
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