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 Uruk would stare at the cushion then stare back at the old lady with suspicion filling his face “Uh….Ukee.” he would duck into the tent, plopping down on the cushion, looking up into the woman's face “Wehl, When mi wuz a kubbi, mi wuz trained by mi momo to klomp, momo gave mi a Lukz ayn O’lig and told mi to Votar. When Mi kaym to da blarg..” he paused, his head dropping towards the ground, with a glimpse of sorrow in his face “Dey frew mi out of da blarg..as a kub..to goi ayn mi own, with nothing but a Luzk and Azh Ligz.” he looked up at the old woman, seeing if she was still listening “Fur the next H’futh years..eye wuz on da Votar, for thingz to bring back to momo that would show mi wuz Bub'hozh.” he had a grin behind his tusks now happy to tell someone his story “Mi wuz here to make a name for Scarrath”
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