Trog steps into the Tavern of the Yawning Portal, his eyes shifting from side to side as he examines his surroundings. Strange dreams and whispered rumors have led him to this place, in search of possible fame and fortune. His last few nights of sleep have been nothing but screaming old men and mysterious chambers filled with untold rewards, and he wants to get to the bottom of it - especially if there's something to be had from it. Making his way through the throng of bar patrons, Trog finds a seat at the bar. He dusts off his clothes - a loose white fencing shirt with a light layer of chain-mail beneath it, weathered black travellers pants, and a battered set of brown boots - and taps his fingers on the bar a few times, gesturing for a drink. Once he gets his drink, he casually sips it, watching the events transpiring around him. "Trog got a good feeling about this..." he mutters into his drink a gruff but well-pronounced matter, his diction influenced by both his mother's learned tongue and his father's tribal speech. "Trog got a good feeling, indeed..."