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?)) You bend your knees to allow your weight to rest onto the cushion, waving your hand over your face to disperse the mosquitoes, reminiscent of a humid, damp environment, before your eyes wander over the walls of the tent - once short, brief seconds go by, you clear you throat to answer the lady. "I'm not sure if you've heard, but uh... I'm looking for a place. Y'know, a place to stay", you say, straightening your back and correcting your posture. Once again, you can't help but examine the inside of that tent, taking a brief pause to do so, before continuing. "It's been tough, it's like peope don't realize all I'm asking for is a night at their place", you finish, taking a hand to scratch the back of your neck, while your eyes glare down at the floor. "I was told about this town - by a dude who'd rather make me walk miles to this place than let me use his couch. He said people are, uh, nicer. Something about cultural values", you comment, raising your face to eye the lady before you.
You shrug your shoulders. "... In any way, I'm on my way to a small town, quite far away from here. The trip's long and all I have are my legs, a few supplies and some nice people's mercy to let me spend a night or two at their place. Few of'em make me do stuff in exchange. In a few days, I was made into a farmer, a street seller, hell, even a dish washer and a house flipper", you snort a hesitant chuckle, before standing up, lapping a hand around your neck to undo your dusty scarf.
