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?))
Shamar would slowly waddle into the tent, holding his round belly as he eyed the old hag "Uzz gib tributez, 'hozh tributez" His deep voice would switch to a chuckle as he reached out his arm, palm open expecting her to place coins in his hand. It was an orcish tradition he was quite familiar with, being the son of a tax collector in an orcish village. He hoped to follow in the footsteps of his father and ensure that plenty of tribute was collected for the spirits. Once it was clear the old lady was likely not going to pay him, he looked around the tent for something he might take. "Movez pinkieh, Shamarz peepz mor tentz in da goi" His grin would become something more serious as he continued into the tent.
