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.” "Oh, I just, uh…" you stutter, tensing up. You eye the crone, then back outside the tent. For a moment, the air thickens with anticipation…
until Grelu said grumbling. "Ye wish to know who a stranger is madame, well a stranger you met." The young dwarf would chuckle as he twirled one of his braids as he then sighed deeply. "Oi be Grelu Irongate, Son of Grel, Son of Gneln, Son of Gnelden, Son of Greldyn. Oi be the last known of me name. Oi only want to be with me kin. There is no dwarf kin here, no honor nor craftsmanship. I need to travel back to the mountains to connect with me lost kin and brethren." The dwarf would bring out a pipe that was not finely crafted but one made by probably himself. It was obvious that he was a not a worker of wood as it was crooked and badly carved. Grelu raised it to his mouth, laid some tobacco in the pipe and lit it. Great gray clouds of pipesmoke belowed from him as he made smoke like a furnance. He would lastly tell the lady. "Hopefully we shall meet again. I must leave for my kinlands as I need to know of me family line."
