You’ve just arrived in a swampy, dim town. As you look around, your gaze is met with shacks and cabins. It smells of rotted wood and wet moss. You 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?))
Sophia kept the collar of her shirt over her nose as she moved through the town. She didn't know much of swamps, other than they were a breeding ground for sickness. The more run down a town was, the more likely it was hosting disease and death. Though, somewhere deep in her bones, she felt as if she had to be here.
Didn't your mother ever warn you about following the will-o'-wisps, girl? Sophia could practically hear the chiding words in each creak of the old, aching trees.
She paused in front of a tent. It was beaten equally by time and poor weather, though, even past her improvised mask, she could smell the sweetness of candle smoke. It beckoned her closer.
Come in... It whispered on the cold wind.
Sophia stepped inside.
Facing the hag, she let her collar fall, concerned that holding it up might insult her company. There was something familiar in the old woman's eyes. Recognition. Then, the crone spoke, and it became clear.
Sophia was in the cards, her name etched in the cracks of charred bones. Was this serendipity? Prophecy? Curse?
She settled onto the cushion, a response dancing along her tongue, working its way through a rare smirk.
"Shouldn't you already know it?"
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