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?))
"How do you know who I am?" I ask tensing up and resting my hand on my knife, taking a step back in the process... I sigh, relieving some tension, and take a deep breath before saying, "My parents died when I was at a young age, and I was forced to live on my own... I learned to survive and that's what i've been doing ever since."
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