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?))
"Greetings" Drulragnar said as he bowed down slightly
"My story is simple, I am no more than a mere warrior who's fate turned out to be... a bit too violent" His face showing signs of discomfort as he played with a small knife
"Worry not, it was my son's" He said as he showed what seemed to actually be no more than a toy
"Yes..my.. son" He paused for a bit then looked her in the eye again
"Oh he is not dead, no, and he's a great Axeman, just like his father and i am proud of him, it's just... they grow up so fast;
Anyway, I am Drulragnar Fimbelvetyr, once an Axeman in the last war, now a smith, Bladesmith, arming our troops or a tool maker for our farmers, nothing more"
He looked around, analysing the structure of the tent for a bit then went reaching in his pockets
"I might have something for you, for your kindness, sadly i must depart, may the red faith be with you" And so he deposited a few gold nuggets on the table before slowly passing the door, bumping his head on the wooden structure above his head
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