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?))
"Me? oh, guess I ot time for a story eh." Drafneir says crossing his arms with a smirk. "Back deep in the mines of Urguan I was born mid excavation. My mother, a kindly woman, raised me alongside me old man. Thought not long after my first birthday, he went into the mines, and never returned. Thought we were heartbroken we moved on as I started to grow me beard. I started work'in on weapons, and learnt how to wield a few of em too. Though while I was learning still, war was amoung'st us. At a earlier age than most Dwed I was brought into battle, hell, one of me scars still hauntes my ol' sight seers to this day, but like I was saying, the wars raged for almost half of me life at the time. After them wars stopped raging on, I was finally free to go out on me own, do what I want. So I decided to venture to be a great blacksmith, as my father was. Me 'ol pop's looked up too Yemekar quite a lot, so I ought to follow in es foot steps hehe." After his long winded story, he uncrosses his arms with ears open wide. "So I t'old ye my story, tell me, about yours..."
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