Your character has just arrived in a swampy, dim town. As they look around, their gaze is met with shacks and cabins. It smells of rotted wood and wet moss. They 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?))
Garrak steps into the dim light, his boots squelching softly as he moves. He adjusts the weight of his warhammer on his back, eyeing the old hag with a steady gaze.
"Aye, yer right to expect me," he rumbles, his voice gravelly from years of battling the winds atop the mountains. "I’ve traveled far from the peaks, seeking what calls to me in the shadows of this place. This town reeks of decay, but I have little choice but to see it through."
He takes a step forward, lowering his stocky frame to sit on the cushion, his movements deliberate yet wary. The flickering candles cast strange shadows across his weathered face, his emerald eyes gleaming in the low light.
“Ye ask for my story, eh? It’s no tale of glory, but of survival. Of kin lost and vows made. A dwarf’s life is often measured in stone and blood. The mountains I came from are crumbling, and the silence... he pauses, his expression hardens ...the silence calls to me. But here I am, seeking answers that even I don’t yet understand."
He leans forward slightly, narrowing his eyes.
“Now, old one, you said ye knew I’d come. What do ye know that I don’t?”
