Bron groaned and mumbled, the discomfort of waking to a pounding headache making him disorientated. How much did he drink last night? He opened his eyes to a lush rain forest of sorts. How drunk did he actually get last night? Then, he remembered. The loud crackle of thunder off in the distance, the swaying of the ship. Staring at the floor while the wood groans and creeks. Being flung around the slave pit as the ship capsizes. Ugh. Did he really survive all that? Now that he was fully awake, he noticed the sore muscles on his arms and legs, and the growling hunger in his belly.
He wore a simple garment, rotten clothing barely fit for a person, a tunic and pants with a belt and a pair of wooden sandals. Not much, but it would do. Brom noticed the trail lined in the sand at the beach a few dozen meters away from his position. He must've barely been able to pull himself onto land and collapse in exhaustment. Brom dusted the sand and dirt off himself and got up, a keen eye searching around for anything of keen interested. Nothing. Just more trees, sand, and water. His left hand twitched for the grasp of his hammer, but he reminded himself that it was not his to use anymore. He had that right taken away from him. He'd been given a fine hammer when he'd grown of age, but now it was gone, smashed to pieces. He wasn't a Stronghammer anymore.
The question was, which direction to go?
Brom could go up the beach or down it, or head inland. Each choice could change his fate heavily. For sakes, well, sake, he chose right, beginning his walk until he found something. Walking for miles upon miles is boring, and Brom hoped he wouldn't walk for too long. Thankfully, what came next was either a blessing or a curse.
A man screaming, a death scream, one only a person about to die would make. The source came from a pair of buildings tucked just after the beach sand. Brom proceded cautiously as he could, moving slow with an eye on everything. One of the buildings door was open. And, upon looking inside, Brom was not very surprised to find a corpse and his killer. An orc, tall and stocky and muscular. He wore similar clothing to what Brom had on. It seemed like he wasn't the only survivor from the crash. Brom cleared his throat, hoping the orc wouldn't simply just attack him. Hopefully it wasn't just a brute.
"Ahem. Not to intrude on your murdering, but you wouldn't happen to be a kind Orc, would you?"