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?))
Simon grunts as he lifts his dead leg over the tent entrance, stumbling slightly, finding his footing in the dimly lit interior. As he drops his torso into the chair, he winces from the shock, "If you knew I was coming, you should have known to provide a better chair." With a deep sigh and a furrowed brow, he aged another 20 years, "The well is running dry hag, I wonder how long I will last before I'm cast out into the streets with the rest of the commoners. You claim to know so much about my accolades, tell me then, where does an old soldier like me find his place in society once more." His wandering eyes find hers, searching for an answer.
