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?))
Throk begins to sit as the frail, small cushioned stool crumbles beneath his massive weight. He pays no mind and stays, seated criss cross on the floor as small, sharp, wooden pieces stick out from under him. He thinks long and hard for what is most likely a couple of minutes as her extremely complex words baffle his extraordinarily small brain. He huffs and he puffs and begins to tell her about his long journey. "Throk hungee. Go find goblin. Eet, eet, eet. Come bak. Orcs goe. Me look. Come to tent. Meet hag. Throk sit. Throk brake chair. Me tell story." The old lady lets out a long sigh and waves her hand. For a second I feel a surge of intelligence as she states, "tell me what I want to hear." I begin again, this time with my actual story. "I am an orc from a small village across the valley near a river. I grew famished one day and set out to find something to quell my hunger. I found a wandering goblin in a cave nearby and bashed his head. I began to feast but got bored quickly. As night fell I made my way back, but the orcs had vanished. I set out to find them and had stumbled across this village. Something from the tent seemed to call my name and my curiosity dragged me in here. I am far from intelligent but am gifted in combat. My large stature allows for attacks to bounce right off me while granting me immense power with my swings. I'm gifted with the club but in dire times I can pick up nearly any large weapon and hold my own."
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