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.”
Emen claims herself a seat atop the cushion & briefly darts her gaze around the tent, before her eyes settle on the hag. Her nose scrunches up as the smell of pure musk rooting from the deteriorating wood hits her nostrils. "Mhai zdhori..?" She briefly side-eyes the tent's dilapidated flaps, contemplating leaving but eventually deciding against it. Oncemore, she shifts her gaze back to the hag. Emen takes a moment to conjure a response to the hag's question. "Zhur, zhur. Weil-- Mi wuz bhorne ubawt gakhty-futh yierz akho, 'na zmole tehnd ubawt'a azthy-mhinneut w'halk vrom Krugmar, az ah hohm-burth, az Momo toalt mi. Mi kubhuhd vas rhugh fhur mi, az whit udtherz', dhough mi bilieve dat ith bahnefizcial tu mi dizceplihn." Emen pauses for a second. The hag draws an eyebrow in anticipation, prompting Emen to go on. "Vhine.. Ehniweyz, wheir waz mi? Weil- Zhehr'z nhot mutzch tu zai ubaut mi aduldhud, agh live inn zhenural; mi muv'hd oud aht h'futhteen, zeddled ubawt uh dub-mhinneut w'halk vrom mi momo agh favher'z blarg, agh mi bilieve zat'z id. Nubzhing nodabhul'z hapint en uh whiyl. Uhnavhentvhul laivh, mi'd zay. Weil-- Mi mhuzt ghed ghoingh. Gug'ye, agh rulg fhor latz time." Emen rises from her seat & spins on her heels. She departs not too long after.
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