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?))
Approaching slowly, cautious of what might have in store for me, I bellow; "I am Arbar Ironcloak, born deep within the heart of the Ironhold Mountains, where the echoes of hammer strikes and the roar of the forge were the lullabies of my youth. As the youngest son of an Ironcloak clan's blacksmith, I was thrust into the world of metalworking from the moment I could stand. My father, a stern but fair teacher, guided my hands as I learned to wield the hammer and shape molten metal with precision. But my ambitions stretched beyond the confines of our mountain home. With each passing year, my thirst for adventure grew stronger, driving me deeper into the winding tunnels and treacherous caverns that lay beneath the earth."
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