Bluntiful

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?)) "My story?" Malicia scoffs, taking her seat with caution. "I feel like yours would be more interesting. You some kind of fortune teller or something?" Her skeptic eyes looked the old crone up and down as she motioned for a drink. "No, my dear. A simple old hag who likes to hear tales is all I ever will be. Here, taste something other than the mire's musk. Malicia Tulssa, yes?" Choking on her sip of water, Malicia's eyes dart wide open. "Oh, aren't you comical? Fine, I'll entertain you as it's just us two." She clears her throat with another drink from the mug. "Always feels like I'm whinin' or something when I tell it so I'll keep it short. Parents burned in a house fire, I lost my home and got sent to live with my godparents. They practically made me a slave within their fields, some weeks I'd be lucky to find a good rat to snack on. Then finally, I did what any other moody adolescent would do: I killed him and escaped. Now I'm here, separated from my business partner, in some hick dead-end swamp talking to a most-likely crazy hag! Is that what you wanted to hear?" Opening her eyes after pouring out months of frustrations, Malicia is left speechless as she catches her breath. Around her was nothing but the buzzing, putrid swamp. No tent, no hag, no water. Taking a moment to think to herself, Malicia shakes her head as she trudges onward. "I need to get out of this feckin' swamp," she mutters to herself.