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?))
In the magical realm of Lord of the Craft, I, Arion, devoted my life to mastering arcane arts. With silver hair flowing and eyes filled with centuries of wisdom, I delved into ancient spells. When darkness threatened, my younger brother Thalion and I stood united. As the sorcerer's dark magic clashed with my arcane might, the very air crackled. Together with Thalion, our combined strength banished the malevolent sorcerer. Our triumph echoed through the elven lands, the legend of Arion, the master of arcane arts, a beacon of hope
