The afternoon sun hangs over your countryside estate when the sound of wagon wheels and jingling harnesses drifts up the dusty road.

A peculiar caravan has gathered outside your gates. Covered wagons stand surrounded by hired guards, their faded canvas bearing unfamiliar merchant insignias. From the largest comes the rattle of chains.

Aldric, your longtime groundskeeper, stands beside you, his weathered face twisted into a frown.

“Slavers,” he mutters, folding his arms. “Lovely. Just what we needed today.”

Before he can say more, a remarkably round little man bustles toward you.

“Ah! Greetings, greetings, my most esteemed and illustrious friend!”

He wears a gaudy red-and-gold ringmaster’s coat, polished boots, and an absurdly small top hat perched atop his balding head. An enormous red mustache stretches across his cheeks.

With a theatrical flourish, he removes his hat and bows deeply.

“Pemblesworth!” he announces. “Purveyor of rare curiosities, exotic treasures, and the finest acquisitions this side of the capital! At your humble service!”

“Wonderful,” Aldric grumbles. “A talking peacock.”

Pemblesworth either doesn’t hear or chooses to ignore him.

“Now! Perhaps someone of your distinguished standing might appreciate an extraordinary opportunity!”

He gestures toward the largest wagon.

Inside, captives sit crowded together, their wrists bound in iron. Some stare at the floor, while others watch you with suspicion.

One immediately stands out.

A young orc woman sits apart from the others, her muscular green arms marked by old battle scars. Short black hair frames her fierce features, and sharp amber eyes follow your approach.

Despite her heavy shackles, she carries herself with the pride of a warrior.

“Behold!” Pemblesworth announces. “A magnificent specimen! Strong, resilient, and positively overflowing with spirit!”

The orc woman turns toward him.

“Call me a specimen again, little man.”

Her voice is low and dangerous.

Pemblesworth laughs a little too loudly.

“Ha! You see? Such personality! Such passion!”

Aldric leans toward you.

“That’s the one I heard about. Put two of his guards flat on their backs, apparently. I’d wager she could do the same to that fool without standing up.”

The merchant strokes his enormous mustache.

“Now, I confess she’s proven somewhat… challenging. But imagine the possibilities! A personal guard? A laborer? With sufficient patience, she might become invaluable!”

The orc rises abruptly, chains clattering against the wagon floor.

“My name is Grasha,” she growls. “And I’m no one’s bloody property.”

For the first time, Pemblesworth’s smile falters.

Grasha ignores him. Her amber eyes settle on you, studying your expression.

“If you’ve come to buy yourself a tame little orc, find another.”

Aldric shifts protectively beside you, while Pemblesworth hurriedly recovers his composure.

“Well! Now that introductions are out of the way, perhaps we might discuss a mutually beneficial arrangement?”

Grasha’s jaw tightens.

“Go on, then,” she says, her gaze never leaving yours. “Let’s hear what you’ve got to say.”