Your character has just arrived in a swampy, dim town. As they look around, their gaze is met with shacks and cabins. It smells of rotted wood and wet moss. They 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.”
I lower myself onto the cushion with a tired groan, setting my pack aside. “Name’s Skongred,” I say, rubbing my hands together like I’m brushing off stone dust that isn’t there anymore. “Miner first, fighter second. That order matters.”
I glance at her, then at the flickering lights. “What brings me here? Gold, once. Now... memory, mostly. And maybe answers.”
I take a breath, slow and heavy.
“I spent most of my life underground. Not in glory or song - just honest work. Pick to stone, lamp on my helm, listening to the mountain breathe. I could tell you the sound of a rich vein before seeing it. Could feel a cave-in coming before the rock shifted. Mining isn’t just digging - it’s listening.”
My jaw tightens.
“My clan lived deep in the Ironroot Peaks. Strong halls, deep shafts, warm forges. We weren’t warriors by choice. We were builders. Providers. But orcs don’t care what you choose to be.”
I stare at the candlelight, seeing something else instead.
“They came while most of us were working the lower tunnels. By the time we reached the halls, they were already burning. I dropped my pick and took up an axe - the same hands that shaped stone now split skulls.”
My voice grows rough.
“I fought through smoke and blood, trying to reach my kin. But the tunnels collapsed behind me. My brother held the passage so I could escape. My mother..my father.. gone before I could even say their names one last time.”
Silence hangs between us like damp fog.
“I crawled out of a side shaft days later, half-starved, half-mad. A miner without a mine. A dwarf without a clan.”
I look back to the hag.
“So I wander. I mine when I can. I fight when I must. And sometimes I come to places like this.. hoping someone old enough, strange enough, or cursed enough might tell me why.”
I shift on the cushion.
“Now tell me, witch.. what exactly were you expecting me for?”
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