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 take a cautious step forward, the squelching sound of the damp ground beneath my feet. The air is thick with an earthy scent, a mixture of decay and the green tang of moss. I lower myself onto the cushion, feeling its dampness seep through my clothes.
“My story, you say?” I begin, my voice steady but tinged with curiosity. “I’ve traveled far, through lands both wondrous and perilous. The road has been long and winding, filled with encounters both serendipitous and sinister.”
