Grondar's thick brow furrowed as his immense frame ducked under the low entrance of the tent. He ignored the hag's opening words, his blood-red eyes scanning the strange, floating lights. The reek of damp earth and something far more foul filled his nostrils. He was not one for these soft places, these small-folk dens. But her words, "It's you," caught his attention, and he grunted in response. His broad shoulders relaxed slightly, a sign of curiosity more than trust. He moved toward the cushion she indicated, his heavy boots sinking into the soggy ground before he settled with a heavy sigh that rippled through the tent.
He stared at the old hag, the flickering candlelight casting long, dancing shadows across her wrinkled face. "I am Grondar Bloodfist, of the Iron Uzg," he rumbled, his voice a low earthquake. "I've traveled a hundred leagues from my kin. My blood runs hot with a fire not even the shamans can name. It tells me to go forth, to hunt, to find something more. It burns for purpose, for a great battle yet to be fought. I seek a hunt worthy of my ancestors' songs. I seek a fight that will be remembered for all time, not just in this world, but beyond." He leaned forward, his massive fists resting on his knees. "I am here because the fire in my veins told me to come. The question is, hag, what do you have for me?"
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