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.”
I sat carefully on the cushion, took a deap breath and started the story of my life. '' When I was young, I lived with my mother on a farm. My dad died at war, he was however one of the best bowman in this land. The days were hard and all the same : we had to take care of the farm to subsist. One day, I woke up because of the yell of my mother. She was getting old, and I was not sure if she could be with us next year. That day, I became alone, forever.'' The women took my hand while I was crying. ''I've never told this story to anyone. I continued to take care of the farm, but some months after the first snow, there was a fire in the field. I couldnt stop it and it burned all the terrain, the house and some places on my skin. I still don't know how this fire started. I want to know how it started, I want to honor my father and become the greatest archer, and I need to find my Home, not a place, but the peacefull feeling of security.'' You will always have a place here, said the witch.
