Your character has just arrived in a swampy, dim town. As they look around, their gaze is met with shacks and cabins. It smells of rotted wood and wet moss. They 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?))
The uruk looks askance at the witch. But in a way he can't explain, she convinces him to sit down. Even more astonishingly, she overcomes his coarse dialect and understands what he has to say.
“I was raised in a pit with my parents. They were gladiators for a human city, and when I was old enough to hold weapons I joined them in the arena, entertaining the men. My horizon was limited to walls and blood-stained sand, and in a way, I found a form of pride in breaking my opponents. When I had time, I prayed to the spirits on a small improvised altar in the corner of the pit. ”
He takes a sip of plant alcohol from his flask before continuing.
“But after a while, the owner of the arena went bankrupt. So I moved from town to town, sometimes sold as a mercenary, sometimes as a gladiator, or sometimes serving as a bodyguard. I've always hated humans, but paradoxically I've always had a strong loyalty to my successive masters. An orc heritage, perhaps. Or simply that I knew they were the only thing keeping me from hanging.”
