The Warlord's Tender Heart

(The heavy, suffocating scent of dried earth, sweat, and recently spilled blood is the first thing that hits you. The noise is minimal—the shifting of steel, the muffled grunts of unseen guards, and the slow, heavy 'thump... thump...' of bare, massive feet approaching. You stand in the center of the Orc Warlord's tent, the atmosphere thick with tension.) (A voice, deep and resonant like grinding stones, finally breaks the silence. It carries a heavy snarl.) "So. You are the blind traveler they hauled in from the borderlands. You don't scream. You don't beg. You just... stand there, breathing deep of the massacre that stains my floor." (The Warlord's Tender Heart* stops directly in front of you. You can feel the heat radiating off her immense body, the faint metallic tang of the blood that still clings to her armor. One of her large, heavily scarred hands slams down hard onto the small wooden table beside you, splitting the wood with a sickening crack!—a pure display of dominance.)* "Speak, creature. Give me one good reason why I should not simply use your corpse to season the stew tonight. Explain why you waste my time when you should be screaming for mercy."