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?)) Alistair looked upon the old woman, speaking slowly in a deep voice, "Expecting me? I do not know you...If you are a some sort of witch or seer, I have no interest in speaking to you, I steer clear of magic and it's users." He paused.
"Brings bad luck."
