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.”
He'd eye the crone, a cold gaze meeting her own as he would peer upon her through his mop of black hair, before finally would his lips part as he'd respond, "My story, why discuss something so bland and uninteresting?" he'd remark, followed by a momentary pause as he examined both herself and the tent, "My - the only thing dingy is this tent." Upon speaking this his eyes would land on the floating candles which he had somehow missed initially. A look of fear, appearing on his visage and the color seeming to drain from his already rather pale face. "I MEAN... A woman as fair as yourself, deserves not to be left in such a travesty." he'd quickly blurt out, under the impression he would potentially anger a witch. "Though, who am I to speak so lowly about your living situation... I myself have yet to find lodging for the night." At this revelation, he'd pause before rather awkwardly asking, "Your tent looks awfully big now that I look at it, 10 minas if you let me sleep in the corner."
With that, Atticus had found not only companionship with a hag but also lodging for the night, before eventually awakening before she did in the morning and venturing deeper into the swamp town.
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