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?))
I recognize the scent at once—no mistaking the acrid fumes of smoldering murkshroom powder, a dreaming haze burned on oracle wood sticks. Several of them, from the looks of it. And those candles... I almost miss them. But no matter. I draw my mask across my face, concealing my nose and mouth, and with poised caution, I lower myself onto the makeshift cushion of hay. "Ah, I wonder what gave me away," I say smoothly, "Perhaps it is my life that stretches on, as though it's brushed against eternity, or the way this entire town shrinks in fear, concealing their faces in the shadows. But you, dear one—you seem to know me beyond the whispers of the streets, beyond the masks I wear. You know the true face beneath." I lean in, voice softening as my eyes meet hers. "Elder, you are well aware of why I’ve come. I need your aid to seal the fate of those who pursue me—the real me. And, as rumor would have it, you have a task in mind as the price for your service. Speak, I am listening."
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