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?)) Dakhma approached the cushion he was offered silently and would only begin speaking once he was seated. Criss crossing his legs he began, “Zinze I wuz a zmal grob, et 'az bin mah dreem tuh be dah bez' seamster in dese landz... Az far az I rememba, et awl start'd wen mah tribe found a tiny village tuh settle in.” He spoke with a heavy accent. “Et wuz burnt tuh a crisp an' not much wuz left in dah city but while we wuz lootin' dah othaz op'ned a chest... Et wuzn't much tuh dem but et wuz dah mos' beautiful dress I eva saw an' 'ave seen so far. One day I want tuh sew sumthin' uv dat quality.” Drakhma looked at the ground thoughtfully considering what to speak of next. He began speaking again, noticeably less excited than before. “I wuz an outcast in mah clan... dah othaz didn't agree wit mah thoughtz, dey would rathah fight an' I only wanted tuh sew, so I neva 'ad many friendz. But now I wanna travel dah world, see dah clothes dah othah people 'ave an'... an' I wanna start mah own business.” With those last words he bore a great smile. Telling someone his story let a great weight off his chest. He motioned to the old hag to let her know he was done speaking.
