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?))
For a moment you stare at the old woman before gingerly sinking down into the cushion. "I..." Hesitation stays your words, and you swallow heavily under the hag's withering gaze. "I had to escape." Silence follows your proclamation, and you can feel the sweat gathering at your brow drip slowly down your flushed cheeks. The damp weather of the swamp has not been kind to your curls, and neither has your desperate fleeing from the only home you have ever known.
“And what is it you seek to flee” The hag asks after a moment, her long nails stroking a crystal ball atop the low table in front of her. Though you have been stifling the painful memories for weeks now as you traveled, her words bring them back in a rush. Your mother, screaming as she was cut down. Your father, desperately reaching for his woodcutting axe and falling just short. And your brother, standing triumphant with a sword as long as his own frame, bloodthirsty and mad.
“My past.” A gruesome, toothy grin begins to spread across the hag’s face, and you are helpless to stop the shudder that shakes your body. You are certain that you have walked into something you cannot hope to outrun.
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