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.”
Yamarz looked warily at the witch. He grimaced and sat down. He was not a very talkative Uruk. To tell the truth, he hardly spoke at all. For two main reasons. The first was his distrust of anyone. He preferred that his blade do the talking for him. The second reason was a neck wound received in a battle, in a distant land, of an almost forgotten past. His only wound. Every time he said a word his throat burned like hell. Despite the pain, he decided to speak to the crone.
"Mi Yamarz. Mi warrior. Mi'z her to klomp! Tell me hag... Where others Uruks. Me looking for Vinteki tribe. No time."
The witch smiled. Then she opened a map, put it on the table and pointed his wrinkled finger to a point on it.
Green Omen Rock. Deep in the swamp. The gathering place of Vinteki tribe.
Yamarz grabbed his great sword and without wasting any more time and without any further words, he left the tent. It was time for one of Vinteki's strongest warriors to join the fray.
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