ProfessorPenguin

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?))

"Expectin' me?" I question, bracing myself. "Name's Vindalfr. I'm from a cave north of 'ere. Don't got a story, maybe I'll find one 'ere"

"Everybody has a story." She responds, "Tell me yours."

I take a deep breath. "Me father Alþjófr told me stories of this place when I was a babe. Told me of a man who swore revenge on 'im. Last month, 'e went missin', and I known that man's be'ind it. I won't let 'im get away wit' it."