G'Lorth the Magnificent - Grung Monk

A strange procession is making it’s way through the disorganised mess of tents and ramshackle shelters that has sprung up around the now inactive portal to Kantas. Few of the refugees stir from their morbid torpor, or bother to look away from the routines they now cling to, their only link to the normality of lives now irretrievably lost. Those that do, however, see something that shocks them – at least momentarily - from the monotony of life in the camp. Two small, green humanoids, looking like nothing so much as anthropomorphic frogs, struggle under the weight of an almost comical amount of baggage. Standing at roughly three feet tall, each is loaded with backpacks and satchels, camping supplies and an inordinate number of waterskins. Between them, fixed to a pair of poles that rest on their shoulders like the handles of a sedan chair, is a large, intricately carved wooden box that sloshes wetly as they trudge through the mud of the camp. Just ahead of them, and similarly laden with baggage (though much of this seems to be personal effects – clothing, weapons and the like) walks another of their kind, this one’s skin a deep, murky blue. In it’s hands, it carries a small tub of what appears to be a thick green slime, which it applies regularly and liberally with a silver handled brush to the final individual who strides ahead of the group, unencumbered by baggage and clad in nothing save a slimy looking loin cloth.
Towering over it’s fellows at an impressive four feet tall, this creature has the same strange, amphibious features as it’s companions, but where their skins are muddy greens and blues, this one shines like spun gold (though admittedly, gold that is coated in a thin layer of glistening slime). It’s eyes are a deep, mossy green, fingers carbuncled with precious metals and glittering gemstones, and it’s loincloth on closer inspection appears to be made of elaborately woven pond weed.
Whispers and murmurs race ahead of the strange party as they make their way unerringly to the war tent at the centre of the camp. In the muddy clearing before the pavilion they pause, and a brief exchange in some strange, chirruping language passes between the leader and the creature with the blue hide, the latter finally stepping forward.
“Citizens of Daring, most honoured allies and lamentable victims of the vagaries of fate – before you stands His Most Sublime Excellency, High Plenipotentiary G’Lorth the Magnificent, Lord of the Fetid Marches, High Lurker of the Grung Imperium, and Newly Appointed Ambassador to Daring-in-Exile.”
It casts a nervous look to the subject of this declamatory heralding.
“Ah…take us to your leaders.”
There is another brief exchange, the golden skinned creature barking what is unmistakably an order to it’s two green skinned fellows, and they set down their baggage, placing the carved wooden box at the centre of the clearing. The blue one fiddles with the top, there is a mechanical click and the box opens, revealing it to be full of murky water.
The golden creatures smiles beatifically at it’s observers, clearly used to being the object of public fascination, before climbing into the water and submerging itself entirely.
With a weary glance between them, the other three creatures begin arranging the luggage and erecting a strange pavilion of the same woven pond weed their leader is clothed in. It would appear these creatures intend to make themselves at home.