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.”
"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 Oleg begins to speak. "The name is Oleg," he grumbled. He hesitated, glancing around the tent before settling into the cushion and letting out a loud sigh. His massive size seemed to dwarf the sparse furniture around him.
"I come from the north," Oleg began slowly. "A short while ago, my clan lived and prospered hunting, killing, and surviving as we orcs do, but then, on a dark day while I was returning from a hunting trip, I saw that my clan was nothing more than fire, ash, and smoke." Oleg explained with a sad, reminiscent tone, "I didn't even get the chance to fight alongside my brethren." Oleg growled angrily. He takes a minute to calm down, then proceeds, "Well, that's why I'm down here now, looking for a new clan to join in hopes it doesn't end up like the last." Oleg says in a more cheerful tone before looking down with his tired eyes, still reminiscing about his fractured clan and his slaughtered brothers at arms.
Recommended Comments