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?)) Borgarth gives pause before deciding on his answer as he observes closer at the mystic and her tent before finally breaking the silence.
"You know nothing of me or my kin as we have been remade deep within our great halls and shown enlightenment and true industrial prowess. Your mysticism will be annihilated soon enough through the flames of industry and choking air of production will route out your witchcraft and superstitions. Consider me sparing you hag as a mercy of my soon reign over all lesser races and weak willed dwarf-kin."
Borgarth scowls with eyes of discontent and malice before taking his leave continuing to March forward in search of virgin lands for which he will build his legacy and secure the future of his blood clan. Zharridak will be the scourge of all free creatures and the glory the great clan once held will burn forever in the minds of the lesser races.
