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.” Lennore eyes the cushion hesitantly, then bundles her skirt beneath her bottom to sit. She strains her eyes to study the woman's face but no luck is had discerning her identity. The question she's been asked ruminates on her tongue, "Not much a story to be told..." She mumbles, waiting for the woman to urge her onwards.
"...I'm the daughter of a farmer, though not a terribly successful one. No ill-will towards my father, but there's no turning bad soil good. Is that what you're asking me? If plowing fields is a story, that's about the best I've got." Lennore pauses to chew on her lip anxiously. "Would you spare me a question as well?"
The silence from the old woman is enough of a yes for Lennore to proceed, "I'm looking for a man. Tall, with an orange coat. Hard to miss with the fur. Have you seen him? He'll be worried if I'm gone too long..."
