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?" Domonique sat down with his legs crossed and hands both supporting his upper weight on the ground as he leaned backwards on his seat, humming in thought. "I'm not sure what I can really tell you. I personally find my life story quite boring, uneventful. Although, I do often get myself into trouble... But it was not all on purpose!" He blushes out of embarrassment the more he thinks about the past events that have occurred involving him dancing with death. "It's more because of my friend who drags me with him whenever he goes out in adventures... And I am often not given the chance to decline."
