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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?)) The dwarf thuds onto the cushion, grumbling as he adjusts his armor, eyes scanning the dim tent. He scuffles his legs out from underneath him, tiredly. "Name's Wutchford. Chub Wutchford. I 'ave come far." he says unbuckling his gloves and boots to his comfort. A sigh of relief as he settles into conversation, and the environment around him. Chub wipes off dried bat's blood from the top of his brows. "I was the only one that made it out... of the explosion," he mumbles. "My 'eight [height] to my advantage, given from my mother." He looks up to the sky, sort of reflecting. His eyes lower to the hag's gaze... "Now... 'ow much a price of ale around 'ere?"