The party is permitted into the village hall; a great circular building just now being illuminated by an orc child igniting the torches. They are funny children - their proportions are much the same as human kids, but puberty hits the males like a runaway steamtank and they pack on so much upper body muscle it requires a readjustment of their spinal stack. This child has tiny little tucks, big brown eyes, but distinctive green skin and no possibility of being mistaken for anything other than what he is. He looks back at your group as the door guard waves you in, his eyes widening at the sight of Marion and Isaera, but settling a little with more familiar ogre and troll silhouettes alongside them. But he wastes no time in lighting the final torch from his own torch-staff, and then hustling into the interior chamber where you can hear him reporting in fascinated murmurs.

When you arrive in the interior chamber, it's already firelit and warmed by a large brazier in the centre of the room. There is precious little furniture, tables and chairs mostly backed up against the wall; with the chamber's interior dominated by clusters of laid our bear and kodo hides, and rough sewn cushions. Presently scruffing the hair of the boy with the torchstaff is an older, scarred orc male with greying beard and braids that settle over each shoulder; a cracked tusk on the left side and a gold cap on the right. He looks over your group with a sense of resolved expectation, and crosses the room toward you. The simple forwardness of this action is almost enough to cause you to overlook the fact that there is another figure in the room - a darker green skinned orc, his muscled frame straining studded black leather armor; his hair pulled up above his head in a topknot. He seems perfectly happy to remain across the room, as far from the torches as he can be, watching you with sharp, scrutineer's eyes.

"Travellers." He offers in common, a sort of neutral greeting that assumes nothing, but does not exonerate you of suspicion. You're surprised to hear common come from his lips, but as he continues to talk, there's a clear strain in his brow and a jarring lexical pattern to his words that suggests he is trying hard to dredge up this old, rarely used tool for your benefit. "Come to, you have, this village Brackenwall. Am, I, Chief Targ Frostfang. Told have been, I, the business of you and I." Continuing to speak slowly, and remarkably patiently, he pats his broad chest with both his palms, and raises an eyebrow, hoping he's been communicative. "Have, you, the attention of mine."


Spoiler: Perception DC 8
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The orc on the other side of the room is watching you with suspicious intensity. He obviously doesn't trust you, and his demeanour seems just shy of hostile...
Spoiler: Insight DC 13
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...But his arms are folded, and his stance slowly relaxes; and you get the sense that even though he doesn't trust you, he has decided you aren't a threat.