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?))
Vera moved carefully into the tent, inching inwards with delicate steps, thanks to the curling of her toes within the ornate shoes that touched this soggy ground below. Her darting eyes and downturned grimace struggled to hide the discomfort of which her surroundings had so rudely thrusted upon her. Her hands, gloved in a white lace, clutched to a large leather travel bag, from which over-spilled the glimmer of silks, furs and a once lived reality of material finery. Her blue eyes flickered to the sound of this greeting and upon finding its troubling source, a gloved hand fumbled to almost instinctively push a rogue gold chain spilling from the bag back into its safe place below, shutting the trove with a graceless thud.
Vera shuffled towards the cushion and this hag, a sceptical furrow on her brows.
"Ah." clipped Vera, eyes darting down to this cushion, failing to hide their distaste. "Are you the. . . lady .. " Her lips curled upwards while her creased eyes analysed this 'lady' - "My father told me to meet.". No answer. She stood in this silence, shocked by this barbarity of rudeness polluting her space. Perplexed by the lack of response, unaware of her eccentrically cold and habitual reverence, Vera decided to lower her bag. Hovering it slightly above the muddy floor below. . . her tired eyes struggling to watch this ordeal. Just then she sniffed through her nose, cracked smile lines twitching. A gloved hand tentatively made the journey down to her calf, where it lifted up her skirts, to show a beautifully ornate heeled court shoe clobbered with dung. A dead fly sprawled stuck on a slimy gold pendant.
Just then, and with a sudden sense of release, Vera flopped herself down on this cushion, letting out an exasperated cry. "Oh you must help me." Her head arose from her hands, her face weathered as she continued at her wits end, words spilling out with a desperate speed. "I don't know where I am. I just got off that horrid boat. From- From- From." Groan. "That dastardly little WET-WIPE of an island." Her words grow more vicious, but upturned eyebrows give away that she's too tired to perform her superiority any more. "Here- Here." She hastily removes a small book from her bag, a frugal clergyman bible, on it the sigil of House Dunwood of the Judi isle. She quickly rips out several pages, and her eyes dart to the . . .nice woman infront of her, softening for a moment at the realisation of her undignified action. "Oh- don't worry about this old thing." Out pours a knowing laugh. "My father won't be doing any more sermons from that I promise you." However, Vera stows the book preciously away and offers the most esteemed woman in front of her the pages she tore out. "Please can you write down the names of the cities, towns - somewhere where I can go to escape this horrid journey!" Her arm flexes outwards again, this time with more impatience. "Somewhere were someone like me will feel safe?" Her gloved fingers holds the pages tightly towards the woman. . - all but two fingers at the end of her hand, which oddly bend half straight and lifeless, through the lace- wood.
"I JUST NEED A GOOD GLASS OF WINE."
Vera gulps, tries to settle herself. A smile cascades on her weathered face.
"Please."
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