“Don't touch anything.”

Ur-Shak's voice rolled through the tent like distant thunder. The enormous orc pushed past, rattling strings of bones and dried herbs hanging from the ceiling. Firelight flickered across animal pelts, carved fetishes, and the crude stone altar of Krushak looming at the rear of the tent. The air smelled of smoke, blood, and bitter medicinal roots.

He rummaged through piles of supplies, muttering curses in Orcish under his breath. Clay jars, leather pouches, and bundles of herbs were scattered everywhere, yet he seemed to know exactly where each item belonged.

“You not touch. Not one thing.”

The shaman pointed a thick finger without looking around.

“I say before. Little human touch everything. Then little human complain when spirits get angry.”

His tusks flashed as he scowled. Heavy footsteps shook the packed earth floor while he searched for ingredients.

“Stay there. Be quiet. Ur-Shak work. Ritual not make itself.”