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?))
Moran glances over her shoulder, keeping one hand on the dagger at her hip - just in case. "Sorry, do I know you?" She says, not sounding sorry in the slightest. After a moment of deliberation and a reluctant sigh, Moran sits down, her tired body dropping onto the cushion. She finally draws her dagger from her sheathe, idly scraping mud from the soles of her shoes as she speaks. "Alright, fine. Just don't try anything stupid, 'kay? I'm Moran - not moron - Adrash. And you are?"
