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?)) The candles flicker as Xalrath Bloodstag, his blackened antlers casting eerie shadows, leans forward. "My path is paved with the screams of the fallen, and my destiny intertwined with the shadows," he declares, his voice a low growl. The old hag, her eyes gleaming with recognition, nods knowingly. "The shadows hunger for your tale. Speak, and let your story become the echo in the swamps," she urges, the air thick with anticipation.
