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?))
Elenora would hesitate, staring at the floor for a moment, wondering if she could trust the stranger. "My name is Elenora," she started, "My father was a big-time merchant, and my mother, well, she was a writer. And I-"
"No, your story." The hag interrupted, "I do not care about your parents."
She would hesitate again before starting, "I was born far away from here, I spent most of my time with my mother, and my father was out most of the time. I enjoy reading and writing, and cooking and baking. I'm afraid there isn't much interesting about little old me."
"Just little old you?" The hag retorted, "I know there is more, what are you hiding?"
Elenora would stare down at her hands, before shaking her head, "No. You would be out of your mind if you think I would trust a complete stranger. Why would I open up to the likes of you?"
The old woman would click her lips, "Ah, if that's how it must be, miss Elenora."
