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 orc entered the tent, heaving for air as the candle sent that drifted around the room filled his lungs he huffed. "Meh don't like pinkie who say she know me." The orc grumbled towards her, his aroma taking over the scent of the room and he continued to heave over the old woman. He remembered how his brother had been slain in a duel by a human warrior and in a swift motion he attempted to slash at the woman who seemed to have predicted his attack and evaded it. With confusion he backed away from the wench. "Meh don't like woman, meh don't like you. It is you kind who killed my kin!" He roared.
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