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?))
"lo messus" the dwed would sit "oi come frum a wee islan' w'ere mah dwedmar ken live troin tu slay darkspown, i wus sent tu dis land fur land recognitiun aftur we hurd of darkspown lingeren arund" hed stroke his beard as he leant back a bit, relaxing from the story "oi beh naemed York aftuh moi ancestur w'o wus naemed da same fur a reason oim net sure" hed grumble at the lack of knowledge of his own family "suh tell meh aboot des land, w'ere con oi foind sum truste dwedmar tu aid meh on dis journeh"
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