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?))
"Oh uh well, I'm from an old shack out in the woods." I sat down. "It had a straw roof with moss on top to keep the water out, It rained a lot. It had walls with stones stacked up and mud to hold it all together. I grew up there with my father. Sometimes I felt like we were the only ones who lived in the world. But then when I was 17, a huge storm came in a swept the house, trees, everything. The Last thing I remember is seeing my dad getting swept away in the storm after he put me in the storm hole in the ground. In the morning, I got out and nothing was left. I now roam the world, looking, not sure what though."
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