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?)) At first, the atmosphere is tense. I study her and look deep into her eyes as I lay my hammer down. I recognize the look of her eyes. So I begin...
"People say mountains shape a dwarf's life. My 'Mountain' is far from here. It is not like these new mountains with clear white snow peaks and beautiful valleys. It is dressed with charred trees with a barren landscape. At first glance it is evil, but look within the mountain and you'll find something more pure than honesty, more longed for than love. My story dwells in that mountain."
