ivery

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?)) Deia clutches at the very edge of her shawl, eyeing the tent with her mouth in a taut line. About as trusting as a kicked dog, she nearly rears back when she spots the hag in the shadows. Carefully straightening her spine, she speaks up- voice deceptively light. "I'm a traveler." There's something airy in the way she's said it, as though she's said it a hundred times before. "Me and my sister, travelling for the change in seasons. I'm sure you get a lot of those during the spring thaw." Sure enough, everything about her posture points to her being poised to dart off again, if it's a choice between that and sharing too much.