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?))
He would eye the old hag carefully, unsure how exactly she knew him. With caution he took a seat on the cushion and let out a relaxed grunt "Mi kum hume" A hand brushes a wisp of hair from behind a tusk. "Az agh kub mi waz thruwn awt uv da Goi ta peep iv mi waz wurthi uv beyin' uh tru Brudda. Mi nub flattid zuh nuw mi returnin, ta finizh ma troialz an mayk mizelf uzful ta Krugmar an da Spiridz." He looked wistfully past her, remembering a memory, perhaps fond, perhaps bitter sweet. "Mi tawt mizelf ow ta votar da big unz, an dedikate mizelf ta da teechins uv Votar. Mi ad uh runin wiv da Midjitz, mi lurnd ow ta mayk Musheynuri wiv uh byt uv vokal persuashun zoz mi kood honnah Trokorl juz loyke mi popo."
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