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?))
Shifting uncomfortably on the cushion, they keep their gaze lowered, only occasionally letting it wander across the dimly lit details of the tent. "Ah, well, I've found myself wandering, you could say. Led by curiosity, stories, whispers on the wind," they murmur, their voice soft and tentative. Their eyes dart up briefly to meet the hag's, searching for a hint of recognition or a tell. "You seem like someone who has seen much, who knows the layers beneath the surface," they add, the words hanging in the air as if inviting wisdom, yet not getting too comfortable in the unfamiliar space and not quite committing in the face of uncertainty.
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