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.” The orc entered the room tearing the cloth of the tent as he made his way to take a seat in front of the woman. A loud thud came from the ground as he sat. "Meh want grub," the orc responded to her as the grumble from the ground transferred to his stomach. "Name Erwa'lan," he said plainly, "You got grub?" he said moving his club. The weapon now sat at his side, the dents that lined it seemed recent and the thought of using it again entering his head as his stomach began to grumble. "Oh, I just, uh…" you stutter, tensing up. You eye the crone, then back outside the tent. For a moment, the air thickens with anticipation, until…
