A halfling, far more haggard and less spritely and cherubesque than one would be accustomed, is racing about Eden. It seems that their eyes are so sunk with the great fatigue of their arduous task that you could tell the exact shape of their skull. The young fool had clearly not slept for at least two days, which is no doubt months or years to a half-man of such tiny stature.
You meet the eyes of the halfling, staring back at you with a visceral, eschatological horror. It seems that some realisation had shaken the poor half-man, his hands sticky with jam and beer jutting their porky little fingers out as he asks a question of every person he sees.
"Does you got one of them orc bounty posters?
People is gettin the wrong ideas and it ain't be natural.
I'm must burn 'em all up 'afore people get even weirder."
If your character dared make a facsimile of the poster, if not ripping the original from the wall like a German soldier plundering the sultry tavern decor in the final days of Verdun, there is but one question.
Do you acquiesce to the half-man's demand to the return of the orcish sketch?
You meet the eyes of the halfling, staring back at you with a visceral, eschatological horror. It seems that some realisation had shaken the poor half-man, his hands sticky with jam and beer jutting their porky little fingers out as he asks a question of every person he sees.
"Does you got one of them orc bounty posters?
People is gettin the wrong ideas and it ain't be natural.
I'm must burn 'em all up 'afore people get even weirder."
If your character dared make a facsimile of the poster, if not ripping the original from the wall like a German soldier plundering the sultry tavern decor in the final days of Verdun, there is but one question.
Do you acquiesce to the half-man's demand to the return of the orcish sketch?
