You see the ogre standing in front of you
At first he looks like any other
Big standing at 9 feet tall
Brutish, wearing no shirt
His arms covered in tattoos
One is odd though
The elven symbol for peace.
But that can’t be right
But then he smiles
And emerald eyes light up with what seems like Intellect.
And is warm, like when your grandfather smiles
And if that isn’t odd enough
When he speaks, it isn’t sloppy
Spoken through lazy lips.
The words are thought out
Each one meant
And his tone
Though bass it holds a warming quality to it
No he is nothing like what he appears to be
Then you remember the rumors in the village
The friendly ogre who is part owner in the weapons shop
Yet few have seen him
Have you found him.
Yes, yes you have
The stories say of a creature kind enough to give you
the gold from his pocket and the food from his plate.
They tell of a brave warrior who would risk everything
for a stranger.
Pain is his gift they would say.
And as you speak to him you find this to be true, every word.
He tells you of battles in the past,
dwarven armies
Orcish Hordes
He has seen it all
His age
He says far too old for his liking
Whatever that means
He gives you Directions to his keep
He says you are welcome there whenever you desire
“There is always a spare room and a warm meal”
his words seem genuine
You might plan to visit someday
And as you are called off by duties, the ogre sitting by the hearth
You smile
For even in the short conversation
You have made a new friend.
Yes that is Gore.