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?)) The Void Singer stands still, studying the women. “My story? Tell me, witch. What stories do you gleam when you stare into a dark, shattered mirror? What tales do the abyss whisper back unto you? We are, all of us, born of the void, ceaselessly into future. Our past is below us, all around us, in the END.” The Void Singer chuckles. “I hail from faraway, Of a land of cold and despair. I bring it with me now. You said you foresaw my coming, tell me again witch, did you foresee this?”
The blade silently slips out of the void singers sleeve, cold and slithering.
