TiredTerror

The traveller has just arrived in a small town. As they look around, their gaze is met with run down houses and shops. They duck into one of the shacks, illuminated by a series of candles suspended in the air. At the back of the small room, an old hag raises her head, “What brings you to this dingy town?" She begins, then pauses to study their face—”Ah, it’s you. I’ve been expecting you. Sit,” she gestures at a chair, “Where do you come from? What do you hope to make of yourself?”

((How does your character respond? Please ensure your response is at least six sentences long, and uses at least two actions.))

"Expecting me, eh? Unless you've got an anvil and a broken axle that needs mending, I doubt we've ever crossed paths," the dwarf rumbles, his voice sounding like two grinding river stones. He does not take the offered seat, choosing instead to plant his heavy, iron-shod boots firmly on the floorboards while his eyes scan the floating candles with deep suspicion. He reaches down with a thick, soot-stained hand to hook his thumbs into his heavy leather tool belt, deliberately letting his fingers rest near the pommel of his forging hammer. "I hail from the Iron Crags, where we build things to last, unlike the rotting timber of this sad little outpost," he grunts, gesturing with a tilt of his chin toward the dilapidated street outside. He finally fixes his narrowed, forge-strained squint back onto the old woman, his singed beard bristling as he speaks. "As for what I hope to make of myself, I intend to find a proper furnace, stoke a fire hot enough to melt sky-iron, and hammer out a legacy that won't crumble into dust like these miserable shacks."