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?))
The air would stir within the tent as the large red orc entered through one of the flaps, his broad shoulders moving them out of the way as he found his way to a seat cushion. "Mi'z peepz da desert for mi'z klan" He'd remark the old woman, his eyes following a bug that floated about the tent. "Grukkin ugh ztartin new klan wit brudda's. Dere not many bruddaz in mi old clan. Uzed to be azh tun, but now iz zo few." He frowned a bit, watching the bug fly around a bit nervously. "All da leaderz iz zleepy old orcs. Nub hozh for getting new bruddaz. Mi wunt tu make hozh big klan wit lots of bruddaz" His hands would quickly come forward in front of him as he squashed the bug in front of the old woman's face with a quickness that perhaps didn't fit his size. "Latz from da desert?" He'd question.
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