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?)) "Oh, my dear..." Oronte pauses, contemplating the most succinct style of storytelling to best illustrate what it meant to be Oronte. "Well, of course you've been expecting me you see: I have been a long time in the making. A summation of the despair and triumph of the earth if you will. I don't usually delve into the heroic tales of the past - but if I must, I must!" Oronte settles his fat body into the cushion. "Now it all started at the age of 8 when my precious dog Woofer was taken from this earth. A beautiful dog he was, so tight and fit... Well, after he passed, it became clear to me that no other being could know the pangs of grief that stabbed my heart, a grief that continues to close my valve." He wiggles his body a little to fall into the cushion more. "I knew the wisdom of grief simply couldn't have been wasted on a mere mythological sort of martyrdom, and so that's when I knew I must become a leader of men." Oronte shifts so that his valve would not close up on him. "No one is better suited to handle the despair of life, and it takes one of martyr status to truly know this." Oronte looks to the old hag. He shifts again as he speaks. "You might not understand my intellect, or my power in leading men, but soon this whole town will. And besides, once they learn of the adversity I faced growing up in nobility and wealth, all in the town will fall to their knees with sympathy. Unh, excuse me." Oronte begins to lean back in the cushion, twisting his body to one side so that the valve might be unclogged with his intrinsically calculated positioning. Triggering something deep inside him, Oronte relinquished a monstrous gas out of both of his ends, powerful enough to blow out the candles in the air. Oronte paused. "I would apologize but it is clear to me that this could only have been caused by whatever witch-craft you have swirling about in the tent, and I must excuse my divine presence at fear of my valve doing something it shouldn't. Tah tah for now!" Oronte slowly rises, using his hands to leverage his ascent as he turns and exits the tent.
