dobranoc__

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?))

The flickering candlelight cast shadows on his gaunt face and broad shoulders. Going strong for decades in the forge. Carrying the weight of a difficult past that cannot be spoken of “My name is Harvey Griffin,” he began in a slow, steady voice. “I come from a small, nameless village, hidden so far away that most maps ignore it. My father drank himself into oblivion most nights. And my mother has been in bed for as long as I can remember. As a child, I didn't have much choice in picking up a hammer. Someone put food on the table.” His rough and scarred hands leaned heavily on his knees as he spoke. “The frist stronghold has just been spared. But it has become mor than that over the years. Every piece of metal I shape Every tool or weapon I make It gives me something to hold onto. Something I could freely call mine in a world that had nothing for me" He leaned back slightly. His words carry the weight of his life. “That's me. A blacksmith shaped like a hammer in the way I iron. Life is not kind. But I've done it. And as long as I have breath in me I will continue.”