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?)) Grog walks towards the cushion, his loud steps thudding against the cool soil beneath him. He awkwardly sits himself down, his frame too large for something of this size. "My story?" He questions behind tusked words "Well, I suppose it wouldn't hurt to say" He settles himself in the soft embrace of the cushion beneath him, his tone, both verbally and visually becoming more friendly. "My people are of a tribe, far away from here. We live from the sea, we take the fish we need, and offer gifts to the waves. We were taught as young whelps that the Sea found favor with our kin, and blessed our ancestors with bright blue skin. The color has faded over time, from generation to generation, but it is said that if you gain the favor of the Sea it may brighten your hue." He speaks passionately, seemingly holding the 'Sea' in high regard "One day, a few of our elders made a plan to take the power from the Sea and use it for themselves. They wanted to be self sufficient. The Sea did not like that." His tone grows cold "We were hit with waves, higher than the mountains we've seen on the nearby islands. It scattered us like sand. I woke up on the coast nearby, and have been looking for my kin ever since. I do not recognize this land, but I'm sure if it wills it, the Sea will guide us back together."
