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?))
As I enter the tent with a look of familiarity, my posture shifts from one of caution to reluctance. As it reminds me of when I was a young boy and I was left behind by my tribe while traveling. I was forced to adapt to the ever changing environment surrounding me. And five weeks later, I arrived home a different person. After what I saw, who I met, I would never return to what I was before. I hope no young child has to go through what I did.
"If you were expecting me, that makes things easier."
I take a seat on the cushion and slightly lean towards her.
"While normally I would ask for a cup of tea or offer one myself, I have urgent business to attend to. Since you know who I am, you know why I'm here."
I lean a bit more forward with my hand placed on my holstered weapon, to convey a message of threatening.
"So I suggest you give me the information I seek, or I will be forced to stain this tent with an ugly shade of red."
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