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?)) He tensed realizing he was late, as he walked into the tent, taking a seat near the lady and begun, "Well I was born in a small cottage house with my father and mother. I don't remember much of my youth as at a young age I was separated by my father and we left for the city. We had a house and he begun teaching me the literature and music so I would have a good set of knowledge. He ran a shop selling all kinds of goods he found on his travels, leaving for multiple days at a time. Teaching me how to run the store, he got into an incident incapacitating his left arm, which is when I helped run the shop. The debt collectors eventually caught up to him and seized his shop." He shifted in my seat now, "He was a frail old man by the time I was 17 and died on my 18th... I sat near his bedside as I watched him slip into the afterlife." His lip began quivering and a face washed over with mourn, "If only he could have met my mother one last time."
