Your character has just arrived in a swampy, dim town. As they look around, their gaze is met with shacks and cabins. It smells of rotted wood and wet moss. They 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?))
He lowers himself onto the cushion with a grunt, boots squelching faintly in the damp. One hand drifts to his belt, thumb resting on the cool face of the blue gem set there. He eyes the witch warily, chin lifting just a touch.
“Name’s Dorin,” he says, voice rough but honest. “I ain’t come fer coin or curses. I’m lookin fer old craft, runes an such. Stuff me people used ta know, fore it all went missin.”
The hag’s grin curls slow and crooked. “Stone speaks, even when mouths are buried,” she croons. “That blue eye at your waist has watched blood fall and banners burn. It knows your name already.”
Dorin’s fingers tighten. “Aye, that stone were me father’s. He marched off ta war wearin it. Never came back. Only that did.” He swallows. “Figured if I’m ta make somethin o meself, best I dont forget why I’m swingin a hammer.”
The witch rocks back, candles flickering. “The mountain took him, or the fire did,” she croons. “Truth sleeps where heat meets stone. Seek the place where the earth breathes smoke. There, if the land wills it, you may raise a forge, and should your hands prove worthy, the stone may yet whisper magic into your tools.”
Dorin nods slow, brow furrowin. “Heat meets stone, earth breathin smoke,” he mutters, more to himself than her. “Sounds like a volcano, or a forge what aint meant fer folk like me.” He lets out a quiet huff. “I aint much fer riddles. If ye mean danger, just say it plain.”
He straightens, jaw settin. “I aint a warrior yet, but steel’s steel, an I know how ta shape it. If there’s evil stirrin, I’d sooner have me work standin in its way than be cowerin behind stone.”
The hag’s laugh rattles like bone on bone. “Then tread careful, son o stone. Monsters wear teeth and smiles alike, and not all villains crawl. Bring me a shard of what sleeps by the fire mountain, and then we’ll see if your father’s mark still burns.”
Dorin nods slow, the witch’s words settlin heavy in his chest. His hand drifts once more to the blue gem at his belt, thumb pressin against its cool surface. “Aye,” he says quietly. “One day, I’ll bring back that stone, or I wont come back at all.” He exhales through his nose, then shakes his head. “But not yet. I aint ready fer fire an monsters just yet.”
He rises from the cushion, settin his shoulders. “First I’ll sharpen me tools, gather what sense I can, an steel meself fer what’s comin. When I return, I’ll be ready ta face what sleeps there.”
With that, he gives the witch a respectful nod and turns toward the tent’s exit, already remebering the long road ahead.
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