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?))
Throin looks up to the hag in confusion before his hand moved to rub his injured head. "Who, me? Aye... I'm a beardling who was apprenticing as a warrior on a expedition with a caravan," he starts, "Along our journey we were attacked and I was knocked out by some lad with a shield before I could even pull my axe. Last I remember the Dwed teaching me was dead and the rest of the lads were out chasing them down, so I dragged myself here to rest until they came back..." With that, he gritted his teeth, looking more hurt in ego than in physical form.
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