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.”
He sat down on the cushion while she handed him a cup of herbal tea. He started to tell the story. "I once lived in the ancestral lands of my fathers clan. We were called the Ironforge Clan. It sounds just like it was. The entire clan were miners or traders. One day they were attacked by bandits and my father fell from trying to protect me and my mother. Our entire clan fell to pieces and we were scattered around the world. Me and my mother ran for our lives while I looked back at the circle of mountains we called home. The orcs were burning everything to the ground. When my mother finally died at her age of 65, I made it my goal to get stronger. I trained hours on end and learned all different kinds of fighting styles. Swords, spears, hand-to-hand, bows, crossbows, knives, you name it and I probably trained it. I did this for 30 something years of my life. I gained weight, and not the bad kind. I was sprouting muscles everywhere. I also learned poison immunity because i knew it would probably come in handy one day." I throw the cup across the room and said, "Like now. Shadowroot Essence, huh. I spent a year consuming this stuff." The old hag disappears in a puff of smoke.
