@mysticrosed for Rozoroc
Nyssala hauled the last crate into place, stacking it with practiced ease to create a makeshift stage on the side of the bustling road. The sun was setting, casting a warm glow over the scene as she rearranged the crates to ensure stability. She dusted off her hands, surveyed her work with a satisfied nod, and took a deep breath. “Perfect,” she murmured, her eyes gleaming with anticipation. “Now, let’s see if this roadside theater can pull in a crowd!”
She stepped up onto the stage and began her performance, hoping that people would be more willing to pay for a good laugh than for a music act.
"I never knew doppelgangers were experts at crashing parties, but those bastards managed to wreck an entire carnival back there!" Nyssala glanced around at the audience. Some people chuckled nervously while others shifted uncomfortably in their places. She could see a few wide-eyed stares, their reactions a mix of shock and amusement. The inability of the surfacers to laugh over a tragedy always shocked her.
Very well, then. Time to change her approach. Her eyes quickly scanned the crowd. The audience was a mixed bag — mercenaries, traders, a few shady types whispering in a corner. And there, near her makeshift stage, was a half-orc with a hulking frame and a stoic expression that almost dared her to be funny.
Nyssala grinned, her mind already plotting. “You know, folks, I always thought the hardest part of life on the surface would be the sun. But then I met this guy!” She pointed right at the half-orc, who barely blinked. “You look like you’ve been gargling gravel and bench-pressing boulders since birth. Seriously, did you get lost on your way to the Coliseum?”
The crowd chuckled. Encouraged, she pressed on. “But don’t get me wrong, I’m sure you’ve got a sensitive side. Maybe you write poetry when no one’s looking, huh? ‘Roses are red, violets are blue, I’ll smash your face, and eat your stew.’”
The crowd roared with laughter. Nyssala winked at the half-orc, enjoying the moment. “You’re a good sport. Let’s be real though, with those muscles, you’d make one hell of a bard — just play the lute and let the strings weep in fear!”
Nyssala stepped confidently onto her makeshift stage, sidling up to the half-orc and draping an arm around what she could get of his shoulders, though he still towered over her even from atop the crates. “Tell me, friend! What’s your name?”