Morphine

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?)) "My story? My story is nigh anything special." Robyrt takes a seat on the cushion nearby, cross-legged. "I'm a simple man trying to carve my own path in the world, just as many others like me. I come seeking the fruits of this continent's underworld, eager to strike riches of natural beauty." The man reaches along the side of his belt, removing his trusty iron pickaxe. "My grandfather had this forged for my father when he was thirteen. Not only his most trusted tool, but the luckiest item he owned." With a brush of his hand across the cold metal blades, Robyrt harkens back to a memory of his father, teaching him about every type of ore there was.