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?))
“My story?” Hestia looked a little bemused for a moment before slowly sitting. There was only silence, as if she were waiting for a confirmation that never came, broken only by the quite rustle of fabric as she moved.
“Yes well, if I must. My childhood was- well peculiar, I suppose. My father raised me, he encouraged us to keep to ourselves. It often felt like me and him against the world. My father was a seafarer and I grew up between ships and ports. He trained me in all he knew.” Hestia paused, allowing a small smile to settle across her lips, sitting up just a little straighter, before subduing it.
“It was on one of my fathers ships I met my fiancé, it was arranged by my father. My father, and my fiancé, were some of the best seafarers I have ever seen, but it only takes one bad storm. And that storm did come. I never truly found out what happened- I lost both men the very same night. I was left behind to gather up the pieces of what was left. The crew was broken, I had to keep them together when I could barely do so myself. So I just- I left. I left the crew in charge of a close friend- I didn’t look back. I never will.” Hestia said with a quiet resolve.
