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?))
Khazruk sighs, setting into his seat with a hearty grunt. His steel-grey eyes danced around the candlelit tent, hidden by his greasy dark matted hair. The sound of stretched leather extends from him as his leather strapped tunic stretches around his figure. The stench of ale and sweat would ruminate about. Khazruk rubs his calloused hand across his face as he takes a moment to consider the question. Finally, he replies. "T'name's Khazruk Threldrim," this time speaking in a low, almost humorless chuckle. He grins before continuing, "Write 't down if yer' keepin' record. I once swung an axe for t'halls of Erebor, marched unda, t'Mountain's banner's with t'pride t'fill a caravan. Feels like it were a thousand lifetimes ago now."
The stout Dwarf leans back, the candles provided shadows across thick lines carved into his face from battles, winters, and far too many nights staring into the bottom of a mug.
"I was a warrior of t'Iron Guard, shield wall trained n' trolltested. Stone blooded. M'clan fought n' t'reclamin' of many halls. There was work aplenty after our victories fer' a Dwarf who knew how t'break bone n' stand 'is ground. Guard duty, caravan steel, border watchers. All honest coin"
It seems as though his voice roughened after his statement, not from anger but with something like exhaustion.
"But peace." Khazruk said with a snort. "Peace 'as a wat of makin' me old wounds louder. Makes a Dwarf 'member every brother he lost. Every command he followed 'at 'e shouldn't 'ave. Every ghost buried n' prayed fer' under t'stone."
His fingers trembled as he scratched his beard.
"So I lef' t'mountain. Thought wanderin' might provide me some quiet n' all this noise. Thought I'd find purpose. Maybe a good death n' some forgotten valley. 'Nstead, I found ale... I stuck w'what I was good at. Liftin' heavy logs, choppin' heavy logs. Fixin' broken tools. No one bothers to attack, but it's enough coin fer' a bed n' a bottle. Some days t'bottle wins."
Khazruk's gaze shifts towards the old woman in the tent. For a moment, under his wearyness and grime, his eyes are sharp. Like old steel that can't forget how to cut.
"So 'ere I am, Khazruck of erabor. Former warrior n' current drunk. Tryin' t'make me daily bread in this swamp rotted excuse of a town. Maybe hopin' I might 'ave one more path that don' lead to the dirt."
He lifts his head, with a grin.
"If y'd like, I'll carve me' saga in runes."
