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?))
Example: My boot squelches in the muddy floorboards of the tent, and I don't bother to wipe it. The air inside is thick with the sweet, cloying scent of burning herbs and the heavy dampness of the swamp. My gaze sweeps past the hanging candles, their light causing the shadows to dance and leap, before settling on the hag. Her face is a road map of wrinkles, her eyes dark and intelligent, and she looks as though she has been waiting for centuries. "What brings you to this dingy town?" Her voice is like the rustle of dry leaves—thin and brittle. Her eyes, however, are sharp as flint. When she says, "Ah, it's you. I've been expecting you," a cold shiver runs down my spine. The surprise on my face is likely clear, but I recover quickly, a flicker of something close to amusement touching my features. Of course she was. I don't sit. The cushion is probably filled with things best not considered. Instead, I lean against a rough wooden pole, crossing my arms over my chest. The movement feels protective, defensive. I've been running for so long, and this feels like the end of the road. "My story?" I say, and my own voice is a gravelly rasp I barely recognize. It’s been a long time since I've spoken to anyone. "My story is that I don't believe in yours."
