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.” Dinvil bows, his long beard sweeping the floor. "Thank you. It's been a long and weary road, and my cloak is quite sodden." He sits down on the cushion, making himself comfortable (or at least as comfortable as one can be, on the ground inside a tent). "I'm a miner, from mountains upon yonder. I've travelled far, for my kin have heard rumours of rare ores in these parts. What do you know of the caves around here?"
