Frothii

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?))

Hozz steps further into the tent, eyeing the patchy and torn fabric walls and heaving short, shallow breaths as to not breath in the scent of damp rotting wood, clearly uncomfortable with the swampy environment of the town. Ever a Dwarf of manners though, he sits on the cushion as he is invited to nonetheless and from the folds of his clothes retrieves a long smoking pipe, a snuff pouch, and a match box. Stuffing the bowl of his pipe full of some sweet smelling herb before striking a match and lighting it, puffing a few times until he blows out a puff of smoke before finally speaking. "Well fer starters, me name's Hozz. I'm an Angnarum Dwed as ye should be able tae plainly tell." With one arm he pulled on his cloak as he rolled his shoulders to get the extra layer off of him, bundling it up in his lap and taking the opportunity to stretch his stocky frame where he sat. "Was born an' raised in the Citadel, in Skjoldier. Did'nae quite like the prospect o' livin' me entire life trapped in its walls though, so on me thirty-third birthday, I slipped out an' boarded a ship fer Aevos. Hopin' tae find a safer place tae plant me roots, meet some o' me long lost kin." He paused for a moment, eyes bouncing from the hag back to his less-than-comfortable surroundings before continuing. "If I had known I'd wash up somewhere so damn humid I'd likely have stayed where I was though." He grumbled, taking another long drag of his pipe.