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, uh, don't really feel like I can tell you." I tell her, slightly tearing up. "Please. I just wish to know your backstory." She responded. "Ok, I think I'm okay. It begins in my home. My mother was a housewife. My dad did all the working." I say holding back my tears of nostalgia. "When, they attacked. Took my mom and slaughtered my dad. It's not fair, I was just a child. I wanna kill every single last one of them. I'd use my bare hands if I had to. They took me back and sold me as a slave. But I want to be a soldier. I'm meant for it."
