Thrilyn

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?)) He smiles, turning towards the voice. "Is that Melinda's voice I hear?" he chuckles, staring at her blankly. He pauses for a moment, contemplating. "What stories can be told by a blind blacksmith? I know only the sound of iron meeting steel, the smell of the heat as it emanates from the forge, and burn of the sparks as they fly." I hope this answer suffices the inquisitive old tent-dweller, as I would rather my secrets remain my own. He notices her eyes examining the blade that sits sheathed upon his belt, and scrambles to think of an explanation to justify a blind man carrying a sword. "Oh haha-ha... You never know! Better safe than dead, right!" I reply with a forced laugh and a tone of reluctance. "Besides, its more of an heirloom than a weapon really. A rare type of steel that you don't see often. Well, at least I don't see it often... I don't see in general!" he replies loudly, taking a step back. "Anyways, I best be off... I have... swords to make... and such..."