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.”
The figure sits on the cushion, his slander tall body barely fitting inside the shabby tent.
he stares at the hag, an akward silence dominating the scene whilst he tries to find the right words in his head, then after a while, he moves his head forward and open his mouth
"I am Celurduz, this is the name i've been given,by whomst i do not know. When still a newborn i was left at the door of a poor blacksmith, in the basket i was found in, a simple sheet of paper with a name written on it, Celurduz. my childhood was harsh, my adoptive father used to send me and my brothers in the nearby bog in search of bog iron that he could use in his craft. But that was no task for some young boys like us, i still remember the face of my younger brother Turusk as he sunk in the black murky water of that hellish swamp. traumatized by what we had witnessed and tired of that life of hardship, we gathered what we could and fled, never to see eachothers again, i ended up finding my way to the Kazin'Kul camp, and I now serve as the blacksmith of the group. it's hardwork let me tell you, but at least it keeps my mind busy from the demons that still haunt me in my dreams."
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