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?))
In the dimly lit tent, the crone's eyes pierce into Akherôn's as he stands resolute. "Mine is a long story," he murmurs softly, "one better left unshared with many who ask." His face bears no expression, as if it were a mask, a mere guise. He turns his attention toward the tent's entrance, then back to the crone. "I don't have much time to spare, so I must be on my way." Akherôn swiftly exits the tent, his every move imbued with an air of caution. He inspects his surroundings once more, unable to shake the thought that he is being followed.