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?))
Aelana tilts her head, wary, but takes a seat regardless, perching on the edge of the cushion. ”Who are you?” she asks sharply, “and how do you know of me?” The crone’s eyes light up at her response and she leans forward, her features stark in the light. Anticipation fills the air…
