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?))
I step closer, my boots squelching against the damp canvas floor, the candlelight flickering shadows that dance like restless spirits.
I lower myself onto the cushion, the musty scent of mildew curling up from it, and meet her gaze.
“My story?” I say, my voice low, careful. “It’s not a tale I share lightly. I’ve been walking for weeks—across marshes, through towns that pretend not to see me—searching for… answers. People speak of you, hag, though never loud enough for the wind to carry their words. They say you know things. Secrets. Names of those who shouldn’t be named. And I—” I lean forward, the flickering light catching the edge of the dagger at my belt— “I need one of those names.”
I watch her, measuring her silence, waiting to see if the swamp will betray us with a sound.
