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Message: <blockquote data-quote="CanadienneBacon" data-source="post: 3205825" data-attributes="member: 11146">Using his girth to push past the gathering crowd, Grun nudges a particularly recalcitrant fishwife out of his way with an iron-shod quarterstaff.  While deft with the quarterstaff, the half-orc's touch is firm.  With a glare at Grun, the fishwife moves out of the cleric's path.  Looking up at the town crier and the castle tower that looms above the city, Grun ignores the rumble in his belly to peer at the crier and listen intently to the man's call for volunteers.  With naught but an audible grunt, Grun inwardly muses on the possibility of redemption the town's need seems to offer.  His plate mail clanking with each thick step, Grun ambles off toward the keep, his thoughts his own, his eyes firmly planted on the mud and earth of the city streets.  Sensing the approach of stone, Grun looks up at the castle.  With an approving grunt, Grun roughly clasps calloused fingers about his silver holy symbol of Moradin and shuffles forward to enter underneath castle's portcullis.  Oblivious to those who mill about the castle, Grun moves forward, obviously casting about for a place of assembly where those who seek to volunteer gather.</blockquote>