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'm not much for stories," you respond, examining the poorly-aged woman through the mask's sockets. "I need a home, for now. Anything will do. I don't have much on me, but if a story is what you seek, that might suffice as payment. I don't ask for food, either; just a roof to sleep under."
"Why the mask?" she asks. "Answer me that, and I'll find you a nice bed for tonight."
You sigh, examining the decrepit shack; you question the value behind the deal. You accept.
"I was born and raised at a circus, The Gloomlit Masquerade they called it. Danced, sang, and jingled my whole life for the rich and poor alike to laugh and holler at my face. I was beaten, scarred, damn near tortured at that hellspawn, so I fled. One night—can't remember for the life of me when—I ran away. Jumped off the carriage as we migrated toward Nevaehlen, and ran for the trees."
The hag smiled, her rotten teeth flashing under her cracked lips, "You still didn't answer my question."
"They know who I am. They know my face; they pride in what damage they have caused to it. This mask is all I have for secrecy, for comfort. The bells are just there because their sound remind me of home."
"Good," the hag replied, "now let's get you that roof you wanted."
