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?))
Barzdakotis let out a slow breath through his beard, then gave a grunt—not quite a greeting, not quite a curse. He glanced at the cushion and snorted. His knees didn’t much like soft ground, but the hag’s eyes told him this wasn’t a request. He eased himself down, back straight as a hammer haft."Barzdakotis," he rumbled, "son of no living soul, born beneath the mountain when the stone was young and the forge still sang."They say I was born in the emberlight of the Deep Forge, pulled from the ashes of a dying kiln. Raised by smiths who spoke only in iron and oath. I’ve seen the underhalls crumble. I’ve seen gold turn to dust in a king’s hand. I've seen brothers fall to greed, and fire wake in the deep where no fire should be.""A name. Written in blood and carved in places no dwarf should tread. Something ancient has risen—something cruel. And it's left its mark on the stones behind me. Burned through runes like they were paper. Took my hammer-brother. Took more."You say you were expectin’ me. Then you know why I’m here. You know what stalks these bogs. Speak plain, witch. I’ve no patience for riddles, and no mercy for lies."
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