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.” ---
While he'd rather stand, the tall half-orc settles for politeness and takes his seat. Best to take the offer when it's given, yes?
The dimness of the candlelight fails to properly illuminate the dark grays of the male's features, only two, strikingly white teeth glistening occasionally, especially as a sluggish jaw moves to speak. "There isn't one." The words are matter-of-fact, accentuated by needlessly slow speech and a clear attempt at masking a lisp. "Not yet, at least. I travel."
The old hag fails to follow the script, to fill the silence he so politely tends to leave for others to claim. Though, with only the two of them here, the need to fill the silence was certainly less prominent. Uram took this chance to glance around, an idle hand reaching for a tattered notebook. Pages warped and bulked up over the years, the book itself bore the story that the half-orc himself failed to tell. Scribbles filled a new page, immortalizing the tent around him onto a page. "My story will end when I do... I suppose." That trail of thought ended, the majority of Uram's attention taken by his journal. He's gone through quite a few of those, hasn't he? The weight of his bags increasing with each iteration - perhaps it was time to invest in thicker books so the amount of them would decrease. Perhaps it was time to settle down.
Hah, as if. If there was a town that would accept him, it would appear to him ages too late. Even if he wished to, Uram feared he could not stand staying in one place for long enough to live there.
Speaking of, staying still always brought discomfort in the end, and the half-orc had to take a moment to adjust his position. Each movement came with the rustling of clothes, the drag of heavy bags against the floor of the tent. Aside from his size being on the larger side, the fact that the man carried his entire life with him certainly added to the way he took up space in a room. "I have stories of... others. Though I doubt that's what you're after." The hag, naturally, was of no help, though help was not something Uram needed. He was here to speak, and speak he did - whether or not the old woman was content with Uram's speech was not his problem.
The sound of a book slamming shut brought and end to their brief exchange. He got what he came for - new scenery, something to write about. An experience. He did not wait for the hag to acknowledge his departure, nor did he wish for her to, even as he took his time dragging his weight out of the tattered tent.
