The beach beneath my feet has shifted from scrag grasses into temperamental desert sands. The quintet of unlikely folk before me have laid waste to a locathah patrol. A little parley, a little melee. ‘Tis the season, I suppose, for foreigners to war upon these lands.
Making haste, this queer party engages some of the ork in their foul tongue. The orks seem to be forbidding entrance to these outsiders. Neither party looks pleased. Naturally, I cannot make their words for regarding my own safety, which requires a good measure from these heathens.
As they stand waiting, I see the newcomers are dressed inhospitably. A small humanoid in black scale and his silver-haired, pale ally walk in the banner of Hextor. Bless me, their comrade walks with Nerull’s priesthood. The gods are rallying…
Enlisted, I spy, a common fighter and archer tailing that trio. Dark times this day. The nomads were bad enough.
Wait, the foreigners have grown weary. Blood has shed. I cringe at the lightning striking the sky on a clear day. These people are foul.
The ork tribe has fallen to the hand of tyranny within moments. With their chieftan fallen, heart gouged and eaten by the disturbing, small one, these tribal warriors were slain.
Upon mid-day, these conquerers are resting and looting. Oh, how righteous. A pair of them have returned with kobold corpses. I would shout ‘Good riddance’, nay do I desire to relinquish my position. I fear I would become the next dish to these mad barbarians.