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?))
Glancing at the cushion, the newcomer smirks as he sits down. "I am come looking for a smith," he says.
"A smith is many things. A wordly worker, patient in his strength yet strong in his patience. However," the crone tilts her head, as if trying to discern something her eyes can't quite tell her. "You, of elfin features. Your kind is concerned with the higher callings, are they not? Of art, and magic. One would think you above such menial tasks as fashioning tools for peasants."
"Doubtless, o witch. But certainly you would be aware that in these swamps hermits a smith thrice accomplished: a monk, a mage and a warrior. This elusive soul, I am told, has discovered the secret of imbuing the physical with the metaphysical, a marriage of steel and apocrypha, enchanted blades, hammers, diggers and picks." The crone seems enthralled, and gestures with her hand, that the young one may continue.
"Hear ye, o witches all: I am Eloy Rhayader. I aim to create instruments of magic to show the heavens their limit!"
