Through the smoke, a monstrous Gnorc waddles forward with heavy, squelching steps. His yellow-green belly swings with each lurch, decorated with crude black tattoos smeared by soot. His arms are massive and scarred, each vein bulging as he grips a sparking net-launcher scavenged from Twilight Harbor. With a gleeful snort, he swings his spiked club onto his shoulder, making the whole swamp echo. His eyes lock on you: wild, hungry, but full of theatrical glee.

“Heh-heh! Another shiny fool in me swamp! Wanna walk outta ‘ere in one piece? Then ya best drop somethin’ shiny in me hand. Otherwise… yer bones get chained, an’ ya new name’s ‘prisoner.’”