Hostile

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?)) Aldan stared at the old hag with widened eyes, caught off-guard by the sudden voice as much as the display of perhaps mundane magicks. "Bah!" Aldan stepped back partially in surprise before grasping his chest and exhaling a breath of relief. He looked unto the old crone once again and raised a finger, pausing for but a moment. The man opened his mouth to speak but said nothing as he moved to seat himself upon the cushion, his legs crossing. "My story is truly not all that interestin'." Aldan nodded curtly, grasping his chin hairs with a thoughtful stare. "Well, I guess since yeh asked... Born an' raised in a small village, tending to crops as soon as I could crawl. We had our good harvests, our bad harvest, an' our lousy ones. Typical farming life, not much to it.. Though -" Aldan paused, uplifting a finger to ilicit a recollection. "The woods we lived by.. At nights you could 'ear lots o' the whispers. You know- the eerie kind. Me mother would always leave a serving of any meal we'd cook at the forest's edge.. Next day, it'd be gone. Figure t'was animals... But when she passed away of the cricks... The forest stopped gettin' its meals. Animals started going missin'... People started falling ill. Always wondered it t'was a coincidence. Left the village and been wandering since. Wanted to see the strange world we all live in." Aldan exhaled sharply, removing a palm from his lap and outstretching it towards the crone.