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?))
(After staring into her eyes for a brief moment)
Famine and war has brought me to these lands. My journey has been one of not just treachery, but treason and death. For the only ones who survived are my son(Magnus Gurson), his friend, and Myself. Our land was ravaged by the Orcs. To there side were rogue clans of Goblins and Dark Elves. We the Brael'k clan along with the Armies of Northern Kredor Alliance fought them for many moons. But, our victories did not come without it's price. For, the Orcs who we battled within our pastures were cursed and their blood seeped into the roots of life. On the 4th blood moon, our crops began to die and those who ate from the cursed fields soon fell from the endless torment plagued within their soul. Those of whom were able, sought refuge with the Camphor Tribe. These event have led what is left of my tribe to these lands.
