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?))
As I sink onto the cushion, the old hag's words wrap around me like tendrils of mist. "My journey has led me to this place of shadows and secrets," I begin, my voice carrying the weight of uncertainty mingled with a spark of curiosity. "I seek truths veiled in the depths of mist and mystery. Whispers on the wind speak of forgotten magic and ancient powers woven into the very fabric of this swampy town. I come in search of guidance, seeking solace in the stories that dance on the edge of memory."
I meet the old hag's gaze, hoping to find a glimmer of recognition or empathy in her weathered eyes. "What mysteries lie hidden within these murky waters, and what role am I to play in their unfolding?" I inquire, my words hanging in the air like leaves caught in the breeze, waiting to be carried to their destined place in the tapestry of life.
