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?))
Sufyan had missed the dunes in which he had came from. The windswept sands and the scorching sun had become a missed annoyance in comparison to the humid town he founded himself in. He had traveled for quite some time, unable to recall - with certainty - the last time he had stopped in a town.
As he wanders around, scanning the visible vicinity as he goes, he found that the stench of rotted wood and wet moss to be more potent then what he was prepared for. After a few short glances at the various shacks and cabins, hoping to find any immediate indication of a tavern or place of rest, Sufyan turned his gaze towards a tattered tent that looked worn down with time. It was situated just off the main trail, with vines and moss littering its exterior. The tent itself was not luxurious by any means, and the visage itself made Sufyan uncertain of entering. Despite this, he saw no other immediate alternative; and proceeded towards it.
The musk was what hit Sufyan first, though less unpleasant then what permeated outside, followed by the welcoming warmth of candlelight. HIs eyes wandered throughout the various trinkets neatly aligned and books stacked knee-high. Eventually, his gaze met with an old hag staring blankly at him. Her face was wrinkled with strands of white hair and a single milky white eye observing him.
“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.”
It took a second for Sufyan to respond, one of his eyebrows shifting higher and his eyes narrowing faintly. He studied her face, attempting to extract any signs of malevolence or of the sorts. But alas, her secrets were kept hidden beneath those wrinkles. Seeing that the hag was not intending to continue unless her offer was satiated, Sufyan adjusted his cloak and took the seat.
"By what augury did you vaticinate my arrival?" Sufyan spoke in a clear, yet hoarse voice.
"No need for fancy words, speak to me in a way that matters most." The old hag gestured towards the floating candles, "Recite your story" she paused "The cinders are your witness."
The musk that once lingered had been replaced by the scent of soot and dead flame. Sufyan took a sharp inhale, "I am Sufyan ibn Talhah, the only child of my family. I was raised in a lonely desert village and was taught philosophy and art from my father. My mother would teach me the art of trading by bringing me with her every time she ventured out the village..." Sufyan rambled with no pause. Before he continued, a candle was extinguished.
"Not that story, child... the other one." The hag interrupted as the unlit candle fell to the floor. Sufyan's breathing quickened and turned shallow, "...I am Sufyan ibn Talhah, the youngest chil-" several candles fell, some onto him. He felt the hot wax trickle down his hand and nape as his gaze lowered in surprise. Sufyan clenched his teeth and eyes as more drops of wax dripped onto him. Drops turned to streams as he felt almost the entirety of his back coated in wax.
"ENOUGH!" he bellowed, eyes darted up in a pained eruption.
Fire was all that he saw. A giant roaring flame consuming a small house, one that he recognized. He saw a figure within the flames, as he felt a hand on his left shoulder. He turned his head to see only a darkened expanse and the hand unnaturally elongated from the darkness beyond. He heard a murmur and a soft echo in the distance where the hand came from. Returning his gaze towards the flames, the figure now stands outside the house. The still burning figure limps closer to Sufyan, whilst the hand on his shoulder tugs him into the endless abyss behind.
"...My mother would teach me the art of trade every time we ventured out-..." Sufyan mumbled to himself repeatedly. The figure quickened its pace into almost a run; as the hand, very painfully, gripped and pulled Sufyan into the darkness. Sufyan could only stare at the flames devouring his home, and the figure that screeched out for her son.
Like a dream, he had no idea how or when, but Sufyan found himself atop a pile of soot; inside the interior of a tent. His eyes were sore, his cheeks were damp with the trickling of tears. It had been some time since he had experienced night terrors. Sufyan reignites the flame he made, pulling out a wax candle and stares at it longer than intended. Throwing the candle in the flame, he lays down, wrapping his scarf tighter around him as he watches the candle slowly melt. Sufyan had missed the dunes in which he had ran from. The windswept sands and the scorching sun had become a distant memory. He had traveled for a long time, unable to recall - with certainty - the last time he had stopped in a town.
