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.”
Morgrim took a deep breath, the weight of his history settling on his broad shoulders. "My roots delve into the depths of Khazad Kazak,"
he began, his voice a low rumble echoing within the confines of the tent. "Our hands are calloused from the forge, our minds etched with the runes of the arcane."
He pauses for a moment, looking onwards to the old hag, he continues; "Our roots run deep, intertwined with both mountain dwarf and dark elf blood. Aye, the melding of fire and shadow within our veins."
Morgrim's eyes flickered with a subdued intensity as he recounted the ancient tales from his younger days, "In those times, the mountains echoed with the spirited laughter of fellow wanderers, and the thrill of uncharted realms fueled our adventurous spirits," he mused.
Morgrim leaned back, the tent's shadows casting intriguing patterns on his face. "That's me tale, old one. A dark dwarf with the blood of both mountain and shadow, searching for truths and wielding the fire within." He awaited the hag's response, the air thick with anticipation.
![](http://cdn.lordofthecraft.net/monthly_2023_11/test2.png.45bb3b665a3e95183765507a00d57467.png)
Recommended Comments