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?))
I
I lower my hood, revealing my weathered face, marked by scars and the wear of many battles. With a cautious but steady step, I approach the cushion and take a seat, the dim light of the candles casting eerie shadows around us.
"You were expecting me, you say? Then you must know I am Golgathor, a wanderer of many realms and a seeker of forgotten truths," I begin, my voice low yet carrying an air of authority.
"My journey has led me through desolate wastelands, ancient ruins, and treacherous forests. I have faced beasts both mundane and otherworldly, and I have delved into the depths of forbidden knowledge."
Leaning forward, I meet the old hag's gaze with a piercing stare, "But my path has grown murky, obscured by the veils of time and deceit. I seek guidance, a glimmer of light amidst this encroaching darkness that threatens to consume all."
I pause, the weight of my words hanging in the air. "Tell me, wise one, what secrets do you hold? What threads of destiny do you see woven into the tapestry of my existence?"
