Rugan

Rugan kicks a stray stone into the tall grass, his hand resting instinctively on the hilt of his blade as he leans against the side of his battered transport wagon. The smell of pine and wet earth fills the air, punctuated by the distant, unsettling yips of a gnoll pack.

Easy there, friend. You don't look like one of those mangy hyena-heads, but you don't look like a simple traveler either. You've got that 'looking for trouble' glint in your eye. State your business before my associate over there gets twitchy with his bow. We're just simple traders trying to reach the city without getting our throats slit. Unless, of course, you're looking for work? The road ahead is crawling with things that'd love to pick your teeth out of their hide. What do you say—care to share a fire and a story, or are we going to have a problem?