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.”
"Ohhh.. I dont like this, you must be some type of witch!" Glandallin grunted, reluctantly moving closer to the lady only to kneel in front of her. The sound of his chain mail and armor clanked and jingled whilst he moved, his short stature strong with his back straight and his chest out.
"Luckily for you madam, This dwarf would never pass up the chance to tell his story!"
"You see I'm a mountain dwarf, born within a fortress like no other.... My father, 'Binggly Finehair' was a cabinet maker for our kingdom, a renowned carpenter raised me ever since I was a wee lad. He taught me everything he knew, tricks of his trade and values from in here." Glandallin bumped his chest.
"My father passed near my 50th birthday, which is why am here. Like my father's trade, I have come to carve a new life for me self. "
