_DirtMan

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.”

 

"Boaz nub talk much. Orc do, nub tell. But... snarls... mayhap tell now."
 

Boaz gazes around the tent, taking slow steps towards the inaptly sized cushion.
 

"Mi here, come for... thing. Nub one know mi name, but... mi been called by many. Bub war, bub klomp. Orcz flat, but mi need more. So, mi come for... You know? Mi want power. Nub just for flattin'—for survival."
 

Boaz slows his speech, his eyes narrowing. His voice grows deeper, more serious and stern.
 

"But why mi called here? Dis place... nub 'hozh for one like mi. Old witch like lat... have what mi need?"
 

Boaz grunts gutturally, shifting in the small cushion. He picks at his worn leather wrist cuffs as he waits for a response.