Dagmora

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?))

Drab brush and greyish water gets pushed out of the way of a behemoth of an Orc that stumbles blindly across the murky water with little more than dim light and a hope as he persists forward. The Orc carrying nothing man than torch, some survival gear and a some scrap metal decorate his body, each bit of metal snagging some of the flora as he persists, up until he finally reaches what he was searching for, the old tent. As instructed to do, so long ago, he put out his dying lantern and entered, the bitter smell of rotted wood was sharp and distasteful, although it is nothing he cannot stomach. He sits down, a heavy thud smacking against the barren mud below his body, the impact creating a groove from the weight alone before he would listen to her question, of which made him ponder 'how could she not know...'? He groaned as he got situated before he would raise his hands, slowly, his body clearly worn and cracked, old skin looking like broken scales, maybe from someone who has travelled the distant sands or traversed the freezing picks in aimless wander. His helmet was the first to come off, cold steel crusted with paint, or what looks to be paint, as he lets it rattle against the metal on his hip, revealing a mane that goes down to his shoulders with chipped carnivorous fangs. His bloodshot red eyes staring at the old hag, a resting face of aggression plastered as if he was always angry, though this wasn't the case, he would speak openly.

"I am Varnoth..." He stated clearly. "I have come, as requested, at the behest of my superiors who demand I seek you out, as a trial, they said answer your question and thus I shall... I come because if I desire to join Clan Lak then I must have travelled great distances, fought my way through various creatures until I have stumbled to your home surrounded in this... Swamp." He thumbs his hand across the metal, letting the long nail scrap the slight rust off of it. "I travel because I have always travelled, from a whelp 'til now, as a young scout in service to my superiors, to the warrior I am, seeking to be stronger through skirmishes, and leading the Horde through that conquest, for the Horde always has use for fast feet and a quick mind. I am to be accepted, I shall become the greatest scout there is, commanded to find the vast enemies and potential allies throughout this land, and in a way, perhaps I shall become a diplomat, if the mighty Rex deems it so. That is my story, it is why I have come, it is why I am here, and it is what I desire."