Conl

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?)) Muk Breesgrik's gaze locked with the old hag's, and with a grunt of acknowledgment, he settled onto the pillow, asking, "got anything to drink?" in his gravelly voice. After receiving the ale, he explained, "Aye, I've been a fighter for as long as I can remember. In the unforgiving lands of the North im from Norland you see, it's the only way I can make coin since my parents passed, it was a horrible death, starved through a rough winter, I was lucky to make it out. Some little highlander lads have hired me to protect them on their journey into the heart of those treacherous lands. They've got fire in their eyes, those lads, and I reckon they could use an old warhorse like me to keep 'em safe. It's been a while since I've had company on the road, and maybe I'll teach 'em a thing or two about survivin' up North." He paused, taking a deep swig of his ale, then continued, "After all, I've seen it all in these parts. The bitter cold, the savage beasts that roam the wilderness, and the cutthroat bandits that would slit your throat for a crust of bread. It's a harsh world, but it's made me who I am today." After hours of conversation, Muk Breesgrik fell asleep like a rock, oblivious to the world around him.