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?)) Throngle walks towards the hag and sits across the fire from her, climbing up the stool from his short stature. Throngle pulls out his pipe and lights it to recount the tale of his broken burrow. "Well Mrs, I come from the burrow of sicklyn and I was a once a great wizard in said town. Sadly though the Orcs of Neravar decided that our little burrow was just weak enough for an easy meal... and sadly they were right. It took all my magical power to cloak past them and escape with the robes on my back and pipe in my hand". After recounting his tale Throngle sits and puffs on his pipe, making shapes and colors smoke wouldn't naturally be. (sorry if the text is different, the security thing wasnt working and i had to copy past this and refresh the page)
