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?)) "My story? I fear there is little in the way of a story, when it comes to me."
With trepidation and the aches of many years, the man sits upon the cushion. His eyes wander around the tent taking in his surroundings, and then return to the woman before him.
"Tales - tales are what I can tell you. Those I've seen and those I've heard. Tales of the times of others, and those of my own - should they interest you," he croaks out with a smile.
Waiting for a response from the hag, and hearing none, he continues.
"Perhaps I'll tell you a tale from my youth. Along the coast I grew, in a far off-land. A town so small I've forgotten the name myself.
My father was a hard man, and expected me to be the same. From the time I was just a boy he had me in the boats bleeding the fish as he landed them - bleeding them improves the texture, you see? By my adolescence I was working my own boat, rowing to the river delta to catch the salmon on their return to their homestreams.
I remember on one of my first outings - it may have been my fourth or fifth time alone on the water. Evening was approaching, but I found myself drawn to continue fishing into the night. A dangerous undertaking, and often unproductive, but nonetheless I stayed. As darkness surrounded me, I heard it.
The whispers came, the whisperers with them. It's a strange thing to hear disturbed water without catching a glimpse of the disturbance. As I sat in my dingy dingey and let the swell rock me, I listened. The whispers told me things I didn't understand, and for that I am thankful. I have no need to understand the mysteries of the world. I want only to be well fed and properly loved."
He looks into the eyes of the woman and sees what he feels to be a glimmer of understanding, and another of wisdom beyond his own.
"I feel I have shared too much, though I once again do not understand how. Thank you for your hospitality," he says as he rises and turns towards the flap of the tent. As he exits the tent he feels fear.
