7

Among all the trees, every sound makes your band jump. This is new territory for you. The rustling leaves hide all manner of creatures. One particular rustle catches your attention. Whatever cowers among the foliage sure smells tasty! How do you plan to catch it?

Your band rushes in, surrounding a furry ball of claws. Can you catch the dirt rhat?

You simply don't have enough mates to surround the rhat. It screams, and twists, before zig-zagging away. Disheartened, you all mope back to camp. At least you learned a bit about the outside world.

Early one morning, Chief Morgorc and Snooky, the shaman, barge into the dorm-tent. "Wake up, you pups," bellows Morgorc as the shaman goes from bunk to bunk, slapping you all awake.

Morgorc stomps around the dorm sneering in disgust, looking each of you up and down as everyone hurries to pull on their shirts and jerkins. Slappa, the slowest orc, gets a cuff around his green ears to spur him on. When you, and the other pups, have lined up in the centre of the dorm, Morgorc stands before you, imposing and fierce. His right eye glares with green fire, his left festers uselessly behind a mass of scar tissue.

"Right, you little runts, time to stop being a burden. You get to choose how to help The Dust Clan. We suffer no dead weight. Elf slavers always have plenty of loot to swap for the useless pups. Snooky, tell these gits what their choices are."

Bent-backed, aged Snooky shuffles forward whiles mumbling madly. "Little ones, you get to be bigger ones now." His eyes continuously roll, unfocused, and he waves his arms like wind-frenzied branches. "But not big, big ones, just little big ones."

Morgorc grunts, his forehead creases with annoyance. It snaps Snooky to attention and he looks over your contingent of pups with greater seriousness.