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?))
I sat down, examining the old lady, wondering what lie to make up but, after a little staring conquest with the hag, nothing came up to me so, the truth I then tell. ``I come from a small town on the Norland Border, I learned Common very late in my life, my village didn't speak it. The winters, each year, continued to get colder and longer. My family, poor as they were, practically pushed me to commit petty theft. Fleeing the cold when I reached adulthood, I passed from town to town, going slowly south, stealing along the way to keep myself alive. "My monologue finished, I stare at the lady, expecting a response from her...
