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?)) Panning the old crone dulcetly, yet with an aura of fear, Athri'suliin leaves the tent in a haste, deciding the risk of a hostile encounter was not worth the trouble of hospitality from a stranger whom of which practiced magic. Keeping a hand close to the hilt of their blade Athri'suliin continues traversing the strange and abandoned town. Too soon coming to the conclusion that nothing interesting was occuring in the vacant town, they return to the site of the old hag and promptly take a seat.
"Alright then, is there anything you wish to speak of in specific?" One would observe Athri'suliin's rude mannerisms. The hag just sat there, smiling.
