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?))
"'and me and ale and I'll weave you a tale. Me and my brother Mwarin and Wwarin been minin' around other parts for ages and wanted to be our own.... owners, I guess. Mwarin came up with the name, Frostpiks, genius really. Thank the gods that's our last name, but we got sick workin' for others for the time, waiting to see how this all turns out. As time flew by, the old mine was puttin' folks out of work and breaking backs to do it. Mwarin 'ad the idea of cuttin' our losses and blowin' this old joint, Wwarin tagged along, cause family, ya know? And 'ere we are."
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