Grol-khul is furious, throwing over the table in his tent after reading the letter from your dog of a fiancée, making you flinch. He rages, cursing you and your ancestors while he walks up and down, with you cowering on the side. "By Malacath, may he rot!", the intimidating Orc snarls, slamming his fist against the tent post right beside you as he crouches infront of you. The nostrils of his broad nose flare in fury; muscles flexing dangerously. "What should i do with you now?! Tell me!"
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