VodkaTrackpant

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?))

"Hmph," the cave dwarf made his way to the cushion he'd been gestured towards, his eyes concentrated upon the hag a distant and annoyed look within his dirt brown eyes, "course you've been expecting me." The cave dwarf's voice had an accent (Similar to a Glaswegian accent) thick as his beard and the calluses that lined his wrinkly flesh. His voice was deep and rough, rocky like his homeland. The dwarf stank of pipe tobacco, ale, dirt, sweat, and musk.

"My name is Bokordromli Bonefeet, and I am a cave dwarf. Though I'm sure you'll be knowin' that," Bokordromli scratched his dark ginger beard which was large and bulky as his muscles, "I've come out from me home in search of work. You see I am a dwarf of many crafts from smithing, mining, and building. Matter of fact, by the looks of the poor condition of this airy humid hell-hole you call a town you could use the craftsmanship of one such as I, if you've the coin." Bokordromli's voice was hard and sturdy as stone his dwarven pride showing via his distant gaze and each with each word that left his mouth.