weeway

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 usually am not so keen on revealing the story of my depurture from home, I so cherished for many summers but you have proven yourself a trustworthy interlocutor, so I shan't keep the secret from you. You clearly see, my attire revealed it the second you looked at me, I am from faraway lands, I seek refuge, for the kingdom of my fathers burnt. I live with a shame of cowardness, but as my father told me so, when with his dying breath he commanded me to flee the helpless battle, it often takes curage, to be a coward. I now live on, to ensure my father's name lives on... Don't look at me so, that I can't tell. Until I prove myself worthy of legacy of my ancestors I am nameless.