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, I just, uh…" you stutter, tensing up. You eye the crone, then back outside the tent. For a moment, the air thickens with anticipation, until…
Tuuru cautiously steps further into the tent, drawn by a mix of curiosity and a hint of trepidation. The flickering candles cast dancing shadows on the tent's worn fabric, as he shakes off the last of the damp from his clothes. "You've been expecting me?" he ask, a note of skepticism in his voice. "I stumbled upon this town almost by accident, guided more by fate than intention. What is it about me that you anticipated? What stories have the whispers of this swampy place shared with you?" His eyes scan the dimly lit tent, searching for clues in the shadows as he await her response, settling himself onto the cushion.
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