Arthur blacklion

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?)) Creative Helper "My story is not one for a stranger, and certainly not a witch. My business is my own." "What do you know of my identity? How could you be waiting for me? And most puzzlingly, what is the purpose of this strange, dark tent?"

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?)) Creative Helper "My story is not one for a stranger, and certainly not a witch. My business is my own." "What do you know of my identity? How could you be waiting for me? And most puzzlingly, what is the purpose of this strange, dark tent?" I glare at the hag, the muscles in my arms tensing. ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆