Your character has just arrived in a swampy, dim town. As they look around, their gaze is met with shacks and cabins. It smells of rotted wood and wet moss. They 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?))
"Oh, I just, uh…" you stutter, tensing up. You eye the crone, then back outside the tent. For a moment, the air thickens with anticipation, until…
Matlida:
Tilda stared at the thick, heavy curtains of the tent in front of her. With a sharp inhale, she dragged them open and entered the tent once again. She stepped inside, her rags pooling at her feet as she took a few steps forward into the tent. Looking up, her eyes landed on the hag once more.
She sat down.
''My story?'' She chuckled, her nerves apparent. ''That's just it. I don't have a story.'' She sighed, her bottom lip slipping out into a pout.
The hag frowned yet her eyes twinkleed with something. ''You have no story..... you?!'' She seemed amused at the suggestion. ''Oh, Young Matilda Puddlefoot, you undersell yourself indeed!''
Tilda's head snapped up. Like a man accused, her face flushed and her palms clammed over. She looked to the floor, then to the opening in the tent curtains. What did this old crone know? And what, pray tell, did she want?
''If you wish to hear stories of my father-'' She began, her words escaping her lips in a bashful rage. ''I am sure I have many. But, as for stories of my own.... I fall short.''.
''Ah, yes.'' the hag began. ''Your noble father, a working man until the very end. The blacksmith that forged the sword of Chief Silverblood.''. She said, in a mocking tone. ''What a fall he has taken.''
Tilda scoffed. ''So is this what you have for me? A message for my father?'' She asked, frustrated with the interaction now. Had she once again been overlooked for the huiliation of her own father? A man whom she knew to be of an arrogant and unproper disposition, with no such bravery as the adventurers speak of? A man who spends his evenings buried deep under a lake of liquid gold, shunned by the village?
The hag lifted her cloak slightly, revealing a dark smirk. ''The message is for you.'' She croaked, a putrid stench released from her agape mouth filled the tent.
Tilda shuffled, picking nervously at a thread on her leather satchel. Looking up. she peered at her with expectant eyes. ''Well, go on then! It's almost time for supper!''
''You must travel far from here, to a place called The Cobblecroak Clearing. Your life here is over. Your father has fallen ill and can no longer care for you.'' She began. ''You must start a new life, in a place where your father's foolishness is unknown.'' The hag began to stir, her staff humming.
''You must make a place for yourself, Matilda.'' She warned, stood over her now.
Matilda jumped up, backing slowly out of the tent.
''Leave! Now! Make a place for yourself! Make a place!''
END
