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?))
"How do you know who I am?" I'd ask. I'd open up about how I was narrowly escaped death by the hands of my best friend. How I had known him my whole life. How we grew up to be knights in our village, him eventually the village's executioner. I wasn't always the "cleanest" knight. I'd steal, I'd tax townspeople, bully them if they didn't give me free things. When the Queen got word of this she ordered me to be executed. To be made an example of. On the morning of my hanging, my old friend offered to let me go. As long as I promised to never show my face there again, or he'd kill me himself. So I wandered on, looking to turn a new leaf, to prove to someone that I'm not that old person. That I can change.
Recommended Comments