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?))
"Expecting me, eh? Aye, that’s no surprise. Seems the world’s always got a way of finding me, for better or for worse" He pauses, stepping forward and lowering himself onto the chair, looking uncomfortable but not unwilling to comply.
"I go by Rarsot Ironhide" He grunts, his voice as rough as the stone in the mountain. "I travelled through lands scorched by fire and frozen by ice. Fought monsters as big as the mountains themselves with claws sharper than any blade." Rarsot is silent for a small while before continuing. "But my story is for another day. So tell me, what's your game, and why's it me ye're waitin for?"
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