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?))
The trees sang with the call of spring, the small spring that Elowen sat at rippled against her touch. The birds were singing and the sun was shining. Elowen's mother knelt just a couple paces away, her hair hanging like a curtain against her back and face. Her hands moved methodically against the washboard, her voice singing a melodic tune. Elowen remembered this well, one of the last days she had spent with her mother, before the tragedy, before the rest of her life. This realization seemed to break whatever concentration had summoned the vision, but the edges of the memory began swimming like water of the pond they sat at.
.png.25e232340da31b0301164756e545181f.png)
Recommended Comments