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?))
"You have, have you?" The younger woman graciously takes the older's offer, elegantly taking a seat on the cushion. Despite her reservations on the odor of the tent, her face showed no signs of minding it at all, greeting the hag with a cordial nod of the head. She rested her hands on her thighs, her sleeves fell to her sides like folded wings. "Then, tell me. Which story shall I tell you?" Her lips curled into a closed mouth smile, hey eyes were slits. "Will it be the story of my first love, the runaway groom? The story of my birth, of the concubine and the servant? Or how about my encounter with a beautiful princess?"
"I don't suppose you have much to do tonight, so I will tell you two." She finished, fighting back the urge to scrunch up her nose at the smell once more.
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