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.”
I duck into the tent, shaking off the swamp muck from my cloak as the candles sway overhead, their flames twitching like they’re watchin me. The air smells like wet moss and old wood, kinda sour, and my boots squish with every step. “Dreadon,” I say when she asks, though my voice comes out quieter than I meant. "I ain’t been on the road long, just a halfling from the hill country with no map and less sense, lookin for somethin I can’t even name yet". Her eyes catch mine — pale and sharp like bits of broken glass — and she smiles like she already knows everything I’m about to say. “Ah, it’s you,” she says, and I swear the candles shiver at her words. I sit where she points, tryin not to look nervous, but my heart’s hammerin anyway. For the first time since I left home, it feels like maybe I’m finally about to find out why I ever started walking.
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