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?))
Drilgroc squints through the dim light, his tusks gleaming as he lets out a low growl. He steps forward, his heavy feet squelching in the damp earth, and sinks onto the cushion with a grunt.
"Me Drilgroc," he rumbles, his voice like gravel. "Me come frum far 'uh-way... Trakkin' uh traydur who fled through 'ear. He take me kin frum me. Me nee' tuh make 'im pay." Drilgroc huffs at the end of his sentence rage burning in eyes.
Drilgroc pauses, eyes narrowing as he takes in the surroundings, "Me travel far... cruss mountonz, furests, un' now dis swump." Drilgroc leans forward, his gaze locked on the old hag. "Me nud 'ear fur refuge. Me 'ear fur blud. Tell me wud yub know... Me itchin' fur 'dere scalp un' me wun't stup 'til me getz 'et."
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