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?))
Alara blinks once then frowns, the corners of her lips twisting downward slightly. After a moment, the expression fades back to neutral as she turns her gaze to the cushion. "I'm sorry, but I'm not sure..." She sighs and her eyes lift, flitting from candle to candle but never landing on the hag, as she continues to speak. "I'm not much of a storyteller. I travel; that's what's brought me here. I'm no one special, though, not someone to expect, so I'm not sure you have the right person. Would you be able to point me towards the inn, please?"
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