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?)) You belch a hearty burp with a pungent stench of mead and beer filling the tent. You begin to slur a sentence together resembling the word "Searching". "I am searching for something, the strongest brew". Through the drunken guise you study the crone's reaction, looking for any hint of the knowledge you seek. For you are searching for the recipe for the strongest brew imaginable so your name may be recorded forever in dwarven history.
