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?))
"I've been expecting you as well." Malak speaks, his voice slightly gruff. He stares into the old woman's eyes for a moment, trying to get a read on her. No foresight, no premonition. He huffs. "I come from the great desert where my people had resided along the dunes. Of course, if you were to enter the southern desert you would find no huts, nor chanting, of the Sorrows tribe- my people. I am the last Truth-Seeker of the Sorrows tribe, and I am looking for the men who had killed them. Of course, you know this already, don't you?" Malak relaxes, looking at the old women again. He smirks. "It is good to know that there are more people who have... foresight. Even if you aren't a Sorrow."
