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?)) "A story?" I ask, gently moving around the poisonous fungus and puddles formed from the leaking roof. "I have come all this way and all you wish is for a story?" A worn cushion that's dry and clean. "Well, if it's a story you want, it's a story you shall have." Distant memories long forgotten became to surface, hazy and unclear. "Well, sometime near my 21st Birthday is when my memory started to falter on me. Even today I find it difficult to trust my mind. Scars of the torment and abuse from childhood have left me a broken shell. I feel cheated out of the live I once had. I had so much potential to do so much more!... But now... I honestly don't know." The headache began to make my brain feel like it was crying to explode. "Sorry... I am sorry..." I sobbed as my glasses began to fog. "I just... I just thought... Maybe you have a potion to help make my pain to go away..."
