Horses

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?)) "My story?" Scilra finally managed, the words sounding thin and reedy in the close air. "I'm afraid it's not much to tell, ma'am. Just a farmhand from Aaun who got a bit turned around." she shifted her weight uncomfortably, the caked mud on her boots feeling heavier than lead. "You say you were expecting me? How? Who… who are you?" She took a hesitant step forward, her eyes trying to pick out the details of the crones face in the wavering candlelight, but finding only shadow and the deep lines of age. The question hung between the two of them, as real as the smell of rot and moss outside.

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?)) "My story?" Scilra finally managed, the words sounding thin and reedy in the close air. "I'm afraid it's not much to tell, ma'am. Just a farmhand from Aaun who got a bit turned around." she shifted her weight uncomfortably, the caked mud on her boots feeling heavier than lead. "You say you were expecting me? How? Who… who are you?" She took a hesitant step forward, her eyes trying to pick out the details of the crones face in the wavering candlelight, but finding only shadow and the deep lines of age. The question hung between the two of them, as real as the smell of rot and moss outside.