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.”
Thrain Ironbread settles onto the cushion, his eyes steady on the old hag. “Aye, expectin’ me, were ye?” he mutters with a smirk. “Well, I’ve come from the mountains of Kazral, where me kin whisper of a darkness creeping from the peaks—an evil that’s best left forgotten. I’ve left me home to find if the stories are true or just tales for scaring younglings.”
He leans in, his voice dropping low. “So, tell me, old mother, what do ye know of shadows that don’t belong and darkness that calls from the deep?”
