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?)) "Haha, what is there to tell?" I ask her. "There will only be stories with a tint of sadness. Stories of past glory, yet destruction of our mines and forges."
She gestures me more aggressively to sit down: "Still, I have heard of your downfall through the elders, not from a youngling that has not experienced the high times of your forge. Tell me! What do you intend to do?"
I tilt my head as I ponder. "Hm, I want to build my own forge, learn from the past and not trust these outsiders as much. According to the elders, they were the downfall among their inability to adapt to war times. If I am lucky enough, I will even be able to found my own group and someone to spend the rest of my life with."
The hag laughs: "Someone so young and yet already under pressure by his dead elders and their ambitions. Very well! If you go that way -" She points on an area on the map in front of her " you may be able to find an area to live. Good luck youngling. Ah before I forget: What's your name? So I know what name to write if you die and come back as a corpse." She smiles with a creepy tone.
While uncomfortable I reply: "My name is Doldred. I won't die a dog's death."
