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 Pilgrim seems somewhat taken aback by the question. Deceptively loaded, he muses to himself. What story could he possibly tell that would be met with satisfaction? He could tell her how he awoke one day out in the wild, how his head throbbed and pounded the more alert he became. He could tell her about the arrowhead he'd found in the base of his skull and how his vision tunneled as he pulled it, how the very tip hadn't come out with it. How he'd realized, once the pain finally began to relent, that he truly knew nothing of himself. How the arrow had seemingly gutted him of his entire life as it pierced him. He could go on and on about the days, or even weeks, writhing in a dreadful acceptance of the loss of his life's history. To end the tale, he could tell her how it had all become clear one day, and how he'd decided to spend his new life.
In the end, though, would it all really be worth sharing?
After what seems like hours, he finally gives an answer to the crone's inquiry. "...Who says I've got a story, miss?"
