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?)) Archibald sighs as he approaches, his steps awfully wary as the hag’s words had raised suspicion. “Well,” began he, an unknowing gleam in his eyes, “We all ‘ave ahr stories, aye granneh? Et’d truleh be a long wun ef ah’re t’ set dahn an’ tell ye.” With that, the dwed gave a nervous chuckle, before asking the elderly woman a question. “Ef ye dun’t moind meh asken’, where is th’ nearest citeh searchin’ fer a smith? Ah’d love t’ ‘ead out tha’a’weh.”
