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?))
He looks toward the cushion the old crone gestured at and takes a seat; a wave of nervous anticipation fills his body. He unscrews the cap of his drinking vessel and brings it to his mouth. Taking a sip, he saturates his lips as he begins to recount his past. "Well...", he says, a anxious tremor strangling his voice. Struggling to find the words, he eventually blurts, "I wandered too close. Humans, they were humans". His soul recoils slightly as anger creeps up his spine. "My own brother thought it best to report my encounter to council members. My brother; my own flesh and blood." Tears began to seep from his eyes, burning his sinuses as they fell. These weren't angry tears; they were tears of fight, revenge. "I was banished". He says, hanging his head solemnly. "They all turned on me, quicker than the winds of change. From there, I was ostracised by my family, the ones who said they'd love me unconditionally. Apparently unconditional love doesn't include speaking to a human. 'It's forbidden', they said to me. I can still remember the long, sinewy finger of the council elder pointing at me, then to the edge of the village. 'Banished'. I hear it every day, as if he's stood beside me"
