*The blazing heat of The Barrens sun roared down upon the grave shaman as he ventured past the first of the thatch roofed buildings that was a small settlement known as The Crossroads.
He received wary side eyes from vendor and villager alike, but such was so customary now as to almost be unnoticed. But only almost.
While he could feel that deadly warmth enveloping him, the blazing heat of the sun was also fighting against the harsh grave chill that seemed to be ever present around Hexbane. The cold around him was a polarizing phenomenon. Though he wielded the power of the spirits like other Shaman there was a grim darkness to the power which Hexbane commands.
As if where a shaman of the Thunderhoof Tribe may coax forth the soothing vigor of a spring rain, Hexbane pulled forth the power of regrowth from the decay and rot within the Swamp of Sorrows. The growing members of his warband have seen and felt its power, and where it brings them comfort, to those out of The Ruinous Powers it is likely to unsettle.
The smell of battleworn clothing laced with grief teased the shaman’s senses and he turned to his right to find a forlorn looking orc staring out over the golden seas of grain that lead to the southern barrens.
Onlookers and bystanders turned their gazes or moved on about their business when the Shaman approached the grief stricken one. And in conversation he found that the orc’s name was Mankirk and he and his wife had been waylaid by a raiding party of Bristleback.
Mankirk had escaped but the last memory he had of his wife was the proud warrior holding back three of the vile interlopers herself.
A bargain was struck and Hexbane headed south after stopping for some supplies at the Inn. They may not like him here, but his coin spends just as well as anyone else’s.*