The air hung thick with the scent of ozone and spilled ale. Ragnar's tavern, usually a haven, vibrated with a nervous energy. A hush fell as Grok, the Orcish champion, strode through the doorway. His eyes, burning coals, scanned the room, settling on Elara, the elf weaver famed for her enchanted tapestries. The book of Rampage he rumbled, his voice shaking the tankards on the shelves, "it speaks of a Rampage Tale. A slot in destiny where power is boundless." Elara, unflinching, raised a delicate eyebrow. "Power comes with a price, Grok. This tale demands a wager, a sacrifice." Grok slammed a pouch of gold onto the table. "This is my offering! Tell me the way. I crave the Rampage."