Your character has just arrived in a gloomy, swampy village. Looking around, they come across shacks and huts. The air smells of rotten wood and damp moss. They duck down and enter a shabby tent, lit by a string of candles suspended in the air. At the far end of the tent, an old witch raises her head: "What brings you to this dreary village?" She begins, then pauses to study your face: "Ah, it's you... I was expecting you. Sit down," she says, gesturing to a cushion. "Tell me your story."
Dimitryl looks around, making sure it's not a trap. His gaze is serious until the inspection is over, and then his expression relaxes. "I see that...you were somehow expecting my visit." He sits down on the cushion and sighs "My story...I'm not sure where I was born, but somehow my mother appeared in a small town in the woods with me. I don't know much about my father. It was a village of hunters, so I learned to use the bow as well as the mace, but that's not relevant here. You see, one day a group of dwarf raiders attacked the village. We were hunters...not warriors. It was more of a massacre than a battle. I fought, but I was seriously wounded and thrown into one of the water wells...During the night I heard the screams and saw the flames...Since that day, I've been a mercenary...And I don't like dwarves."
