As the veil is lifted from your head you are hit by the myriad of smells wafting from the creature in front of you, taking in the dark green skin, the bulging calves, the rippling pecs, the pulsing biceps and the powerfully round stomach that has clearly not missed a meal you realize you are in the tent of the orcish warchief himself, the musk is overpowering the senses, his tusks just out from his mouth yellowed, and some scruffy facial hair dots his chin "morning weakling" he says cruelly