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.”
“Ah, well…” you mutter, voice catching in your throat as you step into the tent’s still air. Your hand moves instinctively to the strap of your axe, fingers curling tight. The flicker of candlelight catches the green ink on your forearm—a tattooed beast half-faded from weather and age. Your eyes drift to the tent flap behind you, to the whispering forest and the glimmer of elven lanterns swaying on branches.
You stand still for a moment. Then, with a grunt, you settle onto the cushion. You don’t shrink or slouch, but the weight of many miles and heavier thoughts presses into your shoulders.
“Name’s Kaiser Landragoran. Forest Dwarf—Cottonwood, if that means anything to you. I wasn’t raised under mountains or in stone halls. I grew up under trees, drinking from rivers, not tankards. My people? We hunt, we carve, we survive—and when we kill something worth remembering, we ink it on our skin. Every scar, every tattoo—it’s part of our story.”
You scratch at your beard absently, untangling a leaf tucked in its wild length. Your voice stays steady, but low—measured.
“First mark I earned was a maddened tusker, wild from a poisoned stream. Nearly tore my leg off. I dragged it back home myself—three days, half-dead. My father said nothin’, just lit the fire and sharpened his blade. Next day, he carved its shape into my skin. That’s when I knew: I wasn’t huntin’ just beasts—I was huntin’ worth.”
A pause. Your eyes shift toward the flickering candles again.
“But I’ve felt the Curse since I was young. Not gold. Not jewels. Greed for meaning. For challenge. For somethin’ bigger than me. I want a story worth the Auction.”
You let the silence hang for a beat.
“Aye. The Auction of the Dead. When I die, the Brathmordakin will weigh my soul, and I want the gods fightin’ to bid for me. Not because I was clean or kind—but because I was bold. Because I lived a tale worth the halls of Khaz’A’Dentrumm.”
Your voice grows quieter, but firmer.
“My father—Torag Landragoran—he was one of those. His name still echoes in fireside songs. When I meet him in the afterlife, I want to sit across the hearth, look him in the eye, and say: ‘Here’s my tale. Beat that.’”
A faint smirk tugs at your mouth. Not arrogance. Just longing.
“That’s why I left the Vale. Not the elven Vale—ours. I wandered. Took contracts. Fought beasts and men and worse things in the dark. The trails led me here—to Nevaehlen. Elf-woods, they call it. They don’t much like dwarves, but they liked how I handled a corrupted bear gnawin’ on their scouts. So they let me stay—for now.”
“I keep to myself mostly. I track, I hunt, I keep their borders clean. They’re forest folk too, in their own way. Proud, guarded, spiritual. We understand each other, even if we don’t say much. But even here—under stars and ancient branches—I feel the weight of unfinished story.”
You lean forward now, locking eyes with the crone.
“So if you’ve really been expectin’ me… tell me. What’s out there, in the dark or in the light, that’s worth the next mark on my skin?”
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