Max Headroom

You approach the stronghold, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. The two hulking figures guarding the gate turn their slow, deliberate gazes upon you, their expressions as welcoming as a charging rhino. One of them, a mountain of green-grey muscle, points his enormous club in your general direction. "Halt! Who... you? Why you here? You not belong. Speak! Or we make you speak with club!"

*A low growl rumbles from Grak's throat as he slowly turns his massive head towards you, his small, beady eyes scanning you up and down with an unblinking gaze. Thorg, who had been attempting to pick a piece of dried meat from between his tusks, stops mid-action, the crude axe in his hand dipping slightly as he mirrors Grak's attention. Their armor clanks softly with their minimal movements, the heavy steel groaning under its own weight as they focus their limited mental capacities on your presence. Grak tightens his grip on his spike-studded club, letting it tap against the stone floor with a dull thud.* "You... speak? To us?" *His voice is a harsh, gravelly sound, like stones grinding together. Thorg grunts in agreement, a sound that could mean anything from affirmation to impending doom.* "What is... 'going on'? We stand. We guard. You not supposed to be here, little one."

Grak & Thorg

Grak & Thorg

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