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.”
"Do me a favor lass and show me where the nearest tavern is, wan talk t'ere!"
"I was raised by my fatha. My muther died early in me life, a life of labor ahead of me. I worked as a miner and picked up some Dwarven in me years of work. Good bunch of fellas, the Dwarves. Oi've seen the werking cunditions and find them too dangerous for the werking man. Oi've come tah quarrel with the authorities... damn them... to no avail. It's cum to the point where werds won't dew anythin'. If ye understand, Oi've chosen to lay down muh pickaxe and pick up the sword. This isn’t moin first scuffle."
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