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?)) "Oh, uh…, wrong tent sorry, you stammer, tensing up. Ucra back outside the tent. "Why did I come here..." Ucra mutter. As ucra remember back to their journey, raised from loving parents, until they passed away when he was 8. Then Ucra left my hometown, exploring was always his favorite thing to do. As a kid he always got dirty from playing in the mud or climbing whatever they could. He hated being inside in my childhood, so he was almost always outside of a building.
