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.” ((How do you respond?)) Krotolus paused, looking over his dingy glasses at the hag. His eyes stayed trained on her, as he refused to let her out of his sight. He knew what these women were capable of, what dangerous magic they possessed. It was not his first time speaking with someone using old magic. The dwarf fully entered the tent, removing his glasses to clean them with his jacket. The sea had clouded them, and the sand clung to the frame. If he was to do business with this hag, he would do so on his own time. This hag would have to wait for him to speak. When the crickets and ambiance of the swamp finally died down, he sat in front of her, withdrawing a spellbook.
"If you know me," He started, flipping the book open to the first empty page. "You know my story. You know my hardships, my anguish, and my goal."
He pulled a quill from his inner jacket, as well as a capped bottle of ink. The ink was set down alongside the quill as he presented the hag with a writing station. "I anticipated you would ask for payment," Krotolus commented. "So, payment you shall receive."
A dagger was pulled free from his belt, and with a swift motion, he had sliced his palm, adding another scar to his battered hands. The palm was extended forward, blood pooling. "Now. Teach me."
