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You made another roasted arm! All that’s left is to rend hommage by offering it piteously to it.
You kneel down on the rug, close your eyes and (p)ray to Peogh, giving your cooking as tribute. “Peogh I humbly offer you this delicacy” you mumble.
<span class="mu-r">You feel like a powerful presence has creeped in.</span>
The flames fan up and take on the appearance of a talking face! A grumbly masculine voice can be heard, the sound being hard to discern if it’s coming from the altar or in your head.
<span class="mu-r"> “MY FLAMES ARE NOT MEANT FOR SUCH AN ILL USE YOU IGNORANT FOOL!”</span>
“You misuse my altar and you’ve got the GUTS to offer a pitiful tiny thing! I've already got more than enough with the hobgoblins and their sorry kin trying to prove themselves to me, I. Will. NOT! I repeat. NOT! Tolerate anything other than the true race of orcs!”
