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?)) "Well, I'm visiting. I recieved an envelope in which there was a map, which, after days of travel, led me to here." I look down at my feet, my once freshly polished riding boots now caked in thick, sloppy mud. A slight look of disdain falls upon my face, but I try to hide it; not everyone is as priveledged as me, but it doesn't mean I like this.. lifestyle. "Why am I here? It's not exactly the same setting as my usual palace." I await the old woman's response.
