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?))
“‘Ello there, the name’s Rusten. I hail from the mountains up north, where not even the sun can touch our kind.” While reaching for a drink, he continues, “I have been sent out from my father’s home, since he frowns on my compulsion to dig holes.” he takes a quick drink and continue. “He sent me out on my own until I can prove to him I can be the rightful heir to the Cravise family. He says I need to work on my ‘dwarven trades’ like mining and smithing, which feels kind of racially motivated.” He finishes his drink, and his story, “So now I’ve going to Dunfarthing to try to find a mentor.”
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