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?))
Egor ducks beneath the sagging flap of the tent, rain still dripping from the brim of his hat. His boots squelch in the damp earth as he steps inside, casting a wary glance at the floating candles. They hum faintly, like insects held mid-buzz.
The hag’s words stop him cold.
“Ah... it’s you. I’ve been expecting you. Sit. Tell me your story.”
He narrows his eyes but lowers himself onto the cushion anyway. It’s damp. Of course it is.
“I wasn’t supposed to be here,” Egor mutters, voice low and rough. “I was on the north trade road, heading to Merrow’s Bridge. Horse threw a shoe just past the willows, so I took a side path—wanted to cut through the woods to reach the blacksmith in Driftwick.”
He pauses, as if realizing something mid-thought. “Except I never found Driftwick.”
He scratches the scruff of his jaw, mud caked to the back of his hand.
“I followed a trail that wasn’t there before. Marked with these strange, carved stones—looked like teeth, almost. Sky turned this strange color. Not dark, not light, just... stuck. Then the air got thick, and the smell hit me. Wet rot. Moss. The kind of stink that’s been here long before people came poking around.”
His gaze flickers to the hag’s eyes, just for a second.
“Then I saw the town. Not on any map I’ve ever seen. And now you’re here. Telling me you’ve been expecting me.”
He shifts uncomfortably. The cushion squelches again.
“I didn’t come here on purpose. Something led me. So, tell me—why me? And what the hell is this place?”
