TOOL SHED

You enter into the tool shed. The shed is dusty and barely standing. A few rusted tools hang on pegs.

A hunched old man leans on a rake worn smooth by decades of use. His beard is mossy, his eyes sharp despite their age. He squints at you and spits to the side before speaking…

“Ho now… best you listen, this traveler, ‘fore you go wanderin’ where wiser folk won’t tread."

"That cave up yonder—aye, the one breathin’ cold like a dead lung—that’s goblin ground. Nasty little blighters. They don’t just keep their treasure, mind you… they count it, polish it, whisper to it in the dark. Step foot in there and they’ll hear you, smell you, and pick your bones clean ‘fore you can scream. Gold ain’t worth dyin’ for, not theirs.'

"And if that don’t stop you, then hear this: stay clear o’ the river bend. Trolls live down there, big as oxen and twice as mean. They sleep by day, but dusk wakes ‘em hungry. Bridges crack under their feet, and swords bounce off their hides like pebbles. Only fools and corpses go lookin’ for trolls."

"So tend to the path that takes you back home, eh? Otherwise, you may never see your home again."

He grips his rake tighter and fixes you with a final, warning stare. Then he walks away.