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.”
Grobak paused a moment as his vision adjusted to the tent's comparative brightness. He sneered at the crone. "You are not her." He took the tent's flap into his hand and had nearly left before somewhere, in a less dim part of his mind, he perceived that the candles were floating. Then it was a mere instant before he was before the Crone, upon his knees for fear of angering one who may have mystical power over him. "Forgive me!" He gasped. "I dig the pits, I am unlearned! I did not know your kind could know- " he gestured to the candles " - that Magic. One day, I have a great dream. I dream of egg, bigger than me." The great Uruk was nearly trembling. That such an absurd thought had brought him in so singular a place brought him to the precipice of his comprehension. "The one who reads the sacrifice, she say I come to you, you tell me what it means, " He paused in recollection. His next words imitated the speech of another, "What is in the egg." Grobak allowed himself to relax, not having realized he had crept from his posture of humility into a squat that nearly dominated the old witch. With a degree of embarrassment, he found a seat upon the proffered cushion and awaited her counsel.
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