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?))
Nimfael steps carefully over the swampy wet ground, her purple dress brushing softly against the wet reeds and mossy roots. Her gaze flickers over the candles, nervously fidgeting as she avoids eye-contact with the old woman.
"M-my mother.. She's sick," Nim pauses, correcting herself, "Well she was sick, she's passed, but she's made me who I am..Or rather who I would like to be," her voices trails off as she realizes she's rambling and she clears her throat to steady herself.
"Before I was born she was somewhat of a nomad, travelling far and wide and when she returned she told great stories.. Lyrical and vivid stories.. Of beaches and dwarves. and secret coves--"
The hag lifts a gnarled hand, cutting her off abruptly. "And what of yourself?" she rasps, leaning forward, her eyes sharp and probing.
Nimfael's stomach turns at the question and her fingers clutch tighter at the light fabric of her dress. "Well..Well that's the problem," she admits softly, her gaze falling to the swampy ground, "I'm not so sure.." Nim begins, the gears turning in her head as she attempts to approach such a question. "I've always felt like somewhat of an outsider, I grew up quite sheltered..I'm anxious like--Like I'm never fully on the ground. I've always felt small and insignificant compared to the world my mother used to tell me about. And now I..Now I want to go out and see it for myself.. See where I might belong..But I'm afraid."
