8bbittortel

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?))

Lugrub stands still for a moment, clad in dirtied and worn armor, sword hanging for their belt, looking the woman up and down. Lugrub breathes in, exhaling slowly and moves to sit, shufffling abit as a variety of trinkets hung from his chest clink against his armor. Lugrubs voice is deep deep but blunt, smacking his lips before speaking "Ih dohunt see Why noht. mah nahemes lug, lugrub, ihm uh.... mer-merc- mercurency, mercency, merc-mer- mercanary, yeh, dahts it, ih guesh." lugrub pauses briefly, not making eye contact with the woman "ih jusht wahntehd teh deugh it yeh know? thut it'd giv' meh purpoize ih dihd, it didhin' thoh, juzht madeh meh biggah it dihd." Lugrub sighs, hand on his forhead, elbow moving to rest on his dented armor clad knee "ih think iz wuhs tryen teh com- compun-compunsa-comput-com... punsayte, for something. ih dohnt knowh what thouh..." Lugrub brings his eyes to stare into the womans "ih jusht... wannah giv' uhp ya knowh? buh ihz duhnt got daht choece nowhz doh ih... becuhz i fehl it, i feehl the problehm, itz dhiz swohrd, dhiz armah... itz all.... roar no chomp ya gehtz meh? ithz liek a banna peel, ithz protection, buht dheirs hidden value in watz insid' da the peel... i was going toh meet wun of dehm... phil-phillososo-phillosomers, teh ashk dehm about ith, one of dehm umies about it, deheir ahl softz liek, so dehy wud know bout wat'z insizedz bet‍ah dehn i doh... cuhz im an Orc, just how life iz sumetimes..." Lug stares at the ground unmoving, faced filled with some kind of crude emotional longing, but with a mind not yet taught how to even know what it wants, grabing his helmet and tanking it off his head, staring at it as the little shine that remains reflects his tired face. his knuckles turn red as he grips harder, wanting to throw it as far as he can, jaw clenched, but he stops. he breathes for a second, calms down, and loosk tired once more. he stands up with a groan, exiting the tent as he continues foward, not quite sure what for.