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.” Ghoron looks at the woman, clutching upon the ragged leathers of his axe "One would be wise to avoid the callings of an old hag in such a place". Ghoron surveys the tent, still remaining occupied by the womans presence "Though I suppose one story wouldn't hurt." Ghoron sits on the cushion, resting his fingers on the end of his axe "Which one would you care to avail yourself to? The one in which I reddened my hands with the blood of inquistive elves? Or the time I split the skull of my kin who questioned my aversion to the blah. I doubt there is any such story that catches your fancy, rather my stories are all but tales of violence and blind rage." He continues to watch her as she remains silent while he talks. "I've spent a lifetime fighting and I suppose i'll spend another lifetime doing just that. I know little of anything else, whether it be my choice or the choice of nature, a normal life has alluded me." He looks down to his axe then back to the woman. "Do such tales find your fancy, hag?"
