Obsidian_MC3

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?))
 

Oskar would look to the old hag, hesitant on what her intentions are. He would take the cushion as told, though on edge as he did not trust this woman. He goes on to explain his story, "Well, I am Oskar, and my story is one you may have heard of time and again."

Stroking his full, blackened beard, he goes on to continue, saying, "Now, what can I tell you.... hm, my surname must make sense. Son of Ander, I've been brought up as a smithing apprentice for a little while."

"Shoveling charcoal into a forge, learning not to make brittle knives, and learning how to swing an axe is all good and well. I figure it'd be time to try my luck, and travel to show my craft. Make my father proud."

He leaned forward, ending up saying, "If I become a local legend, the man who makes grand weaponry, ones guaranteed to stop a blade, or puncture flesh, then that'll be my goal done. Otherwise," he leaned back, crossing his legs, a small grin, "the extra coin can always go to a mentor. I'll be able to know both sides of the weapon. The process of making one. The way to use one. And, in time, and if I'm unlucky, the bite of steel."

His smile faded. "Let's just hope before my time, I can make a legacy that lasts longer then the steel helms, or the hefty flails."