He was born of a Half Orc mother, and baptized after his human grandparent, a pirate of doubtful taste for women. His mother was, as its usual in this cases, fruit of a rape. But among Orcs, Half Orcs are despised. She was hated by the raped granmother, and cast apart.
So it was that His mother, out of the human part of her heart, developed a romantic idealization of her criminal father. Out of this, came a reveration for all that was human, which wasn't particularly helpful on the social issue she already suffered from her heritage.
Out of this isolation, she got involved with the only other Half Orc in the tribe. Who after impregnating her, ran away and, allegedly, took to adventuring in order to provide for his new family. He never came back.
Thus, He grew up as a poor, fatherless Half Orc in the outer borders of the tribe. To make matters worst, he looked almost human, but in height and build. His face hinted his half-bred origin, but his skin was almost pink, with only the slightest grey hue. His teeth did show, giving him a feral look, but his nose was straight, his eyes human. And he was smart and almost talkative. Maybe more than the average man. Definetively above his neighbors.
lunes, 18 de marzo de 2013
Bringing to light things I shouldn't II
Living on the skirts of the village, he often wandered into the forest. He quickly became friends with animals and admired from afar the wolfriding orcs. The elite of the orc army. The empathy he had with the forest critters was nothing compared to the understanding shared between each orc and his wolf. And, a loner as he was, he craved for that bond.
One day he decided to approach them. But he was stopped (luckily) by an old blind orc, who knew what was going on and what would happen if the half orc got in between the reckless wolfriders in their sparring.
The old, venerable orc godfathered him into the ways of a barbarian fighter. A nature friendly killing machine. Tried to turn him away from the thirst of wolfriding, but it was just too strong in him. So, when he came of age, he presented himself for the trials, only to be spat at and insulted, for there was no way a half orc could get to be a wolfrider. Demonstrating an intelligence uncommon for his race, he understood. He lowered his head, humbly, and retired.
His slow, gentle walk was interrupted shortly after a dozen feet. In front of him, he saw two grey, gigantic feet. He raised his eyes to see the eldest child of the Wolfrider’s captain standing, defiantly, in front of him. The uplift of his head alone was enough to make him feel stronger. His back straightened, his muscles tightened.
One day he decided to approach them. But he was stopped (luckily) by an old blind orc, who knew what was going on and what would happen if the half orc got in between the reckless wolfriders in their sparring.
The old, venerable orc godfathered him into the ways of a barbarian fighter. A nature friendly killing machine. Tried to turn him away from the thirst of wolfriding, but it was just too strong in him. So, when he came of age, he presented himself for the trials, only to be spat at and insulted, for there was no way a half orc could get to be a wolfrider. Demonstrating an intelligence uncommon for his race, he understood. He lowered his head, humbly, and retired.
His slow, gentle walk was interrupted shortly after a dozen feet. In front of him, he saw two grey, gigantic feet. He raised his eyes to see the eldest child of the Wolfrider’s captain standing, defiantly, in front of him. The uplift of his head alone was enough to make him feel stronger. His back straightened, his muscles tightened.
Bringing to light things I shouldn't III
His voice sounded deep and menaceful for the first time in his life: "Shro'gn" he said, recognizing his enemy.
The answer came back.
The challenge was clear. There was no avoiding this fight. And he didn't want to. He had reached his patience's limit.
No more, he thought. Even if this means exile, for I'm already bound for it.
He clenched his fist and barely felt his own nails biting the flesh of his palms. He was too young, too small.
The orc in front of him was young and small too. But Shro'gn held a longsword in his hands. Still, the weapon was still too big for him, and had to wield it with both hands.
Shro'gn moved first, swinging with fury.
He had to duck, chest close to the floor, and soon was moving again, his calfs springing to safety, rolling all over the ground. Turning around, he stood up, facing his enemy again.
From afar, the wolfriders shushed their sparring, watching in amusement the battle between the hornless half orc and their captain's kid.
Shro'gn prepared to swing the longsword again.
He stepped back fast, the tip of the sword barely missing him.
That was it, he thought. He wasn't going to let himself die. He felt a rage that burnt through him.
He waited for the next swing, and deliberately, twisting, parried the sword with his bare back, letting it cut him open from the tip of his shoulder to the bottom of his back. As the pain numbed him, the flying kick he had tryed reached it's destination, making devastating damage between Shro'gn's legs.
Both of them backed away. Blood dripped from his wound, while Shro'gn gasped for air, his eyes revealing the pain he was enduring.
Again came the sword, and again he twisted, this time the sword struck the other shoulder, down the bottom of his back again it ran. And so, again came the kick, in the precise same spot.
Blood soaked the floor already. But it came from both of them now.
Shro'gn made the mistake of letting the point of his sword rest on the floor, holding it against his tighs, still grasping with both hands.
He saw that, jumped forward, hitting the hilt of the sword with his head, right on. His arms, ignoring the protest of pain coming from the shoulders, hugged the orc by the waist, and both fell to the floor.
He moved fast. His knee went straight to the source of pain, his arms pinning his foe down, his teeth bitting the ear. His other leg went over the screaming orc, mounting him.
From this overpowering position, his fists started pouring on Shro'gn's face. Soon, it was over. The orc's head was reduced to a pulp.
With the ear still between his teeth, he didn't stop for the wolfriders to snap back from amazement and, snatching the sword, ran for his life, into the forrest. He went straight for the swamps, knowing water and mud was the only way to loose his trail...
The answer came back.
The challenge was clear. There was no avoiding this fight. And he didn't want to. He had reached his patience's limit.
No more, he thought. Even if this means exile, for I'm already bound for it.
He clenched his fist and barely felt his own nails biting the flesh of his palms. He was too young, too small.
The orc in front of him was young and small too. But Shro'gn held a longsword in his hands. Still, the weapon was still too big for him, and had to wield it with both hands.
Shro'gn moved first, swinging with fury.
He had to duck, chest close to the floor, and soon was moving again, his calfs springing to safety, rolling all over the ground. Turning around, he stood up, facing his enemy again.
From afar, the wolfriders shushed their sparring, watching in amusement the battle between the hornless half orc and their captain's kid.
Shro'gn prepared to swing the longsword again.
He stepped back fast, the tip of the sword barely missing him.
That was it, he thought. He wasn't going to let himself die. He felt a rage that burnt through him.
He waited for the next swing, and deliberately, twisting, parried the sword with his bare back, letting it cut him open from the tip of his shoulder to the bottom of his back. As the pain numbed him, the flying kick he had tryed reached it's destination, making devastating damage between Shro'gn's legs.
Both of them backed away. Blood dripped from his wound, while Shro'gn gasped for air, his eyes revealing the pain he was enduring.
Again came the sword, and again he twisted, this time the sword struck the other shoulder, down the bottom of his back again it ran. And so, again came the kick, in the precise same spot.
Blood soaked the floor already. But it came from both of them now.
Shro'gn made the mistake of letting the point of his sword rest on the floor, holding it against his tighs, still grasping with both hands.
He saw that, jumped forward, hitting the hilt of the sword with his head, right on. His arms, ignoring the protest of pain coming from the shoulders, hugged the orc by the waist, and both fell to the floor.
He moved fast. His knee went straight to the source of pain, his arms pinning his foe down, his teeth bitting the ear. His other leg went over the screaming orc, mounting him.
From this overpowering position, his fists started pouring on Shro'gn's face. Soon, it was over. The orc's head was reduced to a pulp.
With the ear still between his teeth, he didn't stop for the wolfriders to snap back from amazement and, snatching the sword, ran for his life, into the forrest. He went straight for the swamps, knowing water and mud was the only way to loose his trail...
More on our Half Orc
Through the forrest he wandered. Over time, he healed. Starvation and need drove him to inventive, first, and to civilization after. But no Orc tribe would receive him. He knew that. His two giant scars, running from shoulder to shoulder and joining at the small of his back weren't enough to prove him as a worthy warrior. They could have been for an Orc. Not for a Half Orc. He would always have things a bit harder.
So he decided to risk it, and came out of the forrest on the borders of a town called Dubik Pass. And for the first time in his life, he was lucky. Or at least, he kind of was. For the sheriff in the town, who held an iron grip of Law, Order and Moral in the village, was himself a Half Orc.
That afternoon in particular, he was sitting outside his hut, on the porch, carving wood with a rapier he had confiscated. It seems people of all races sit on their porch carving wood. The only difference, as it appears to be, is the instrument. While Dwarfs use axes, halflings use switchblades and Half Orcs sheriffs use whatever they confiscated from the last idiot who tried to start a brawl in the wrong town. And that was a Rapier. And the rapier was carving rather strongly on the piece of wood, for the sheriff was angry at his deputy. The deputy, a dwarf, had been talking to the baker's daughter for hours while on watch, and the prisoner, the bloody bastard, had escaped. The sheriff didn't care much for his deputy, and held him in contempt, and prison, and was soon to be taken to what he liked to call the slaughter post. He wouldn't have done that if he had cared for his deputy. The things he cared about, he never got angry with. The things he didn't care about never saw his sweet side, if you might say that a half orc has one. Alas, he didn't care much for his keen, and spat the floor when he saw the raggidy outcast strolling through town. In spite of himself, just to avoid having a beggar or thief in the streets, he shouted:
-Oy!
Our boy turned, saw who the shouter was and, with great effort, managed to smile wihtout looking menacing. He strode to the sheriffs hut.
The sheriff measured him up. He saw the look of hope.
That's bad. This kid is here to stay. He won't be leaving. At least, until next year. Don't want him prowling the streets, nor hiding in the forest or the mountains - starved - thinking some stupid things and making some silly others. Looks the sort who would do just anything for a loaf of bread. And I can't, WE can't tolerate just anything. This won't stand. And I can't kick him out just like that. He saw the good build of the still growing kid and decided that the smithy could use an apprentice. He knew, before the boy opened his mouth, that both the smithy and the boy would agree. He said so. And the boy did. So did the smithy. When a bad tempered half orc enters your shop with a rapier, a giant half carved club and yet another sturdy half orc, "No" is not a word that comes easily and without effort to your mind. Next morning, the Half Orc was wielding a hammer.
Leave him, we must, banging at a piece of iron, for now. Return to him in time, we shall.
So he decided to risk it, and came out of the forrest on the borders of a town called Dubik Pass. And for the first time in his life, he was lucky. Or at least, he kind of was. For the sheriff in the town, who held an iron grip of Law, Order and Moral in the village, was himself a Half Orc.
That afternoon in particular, he was sitting outside his hut, on the porch, carving wood with a rapier he had confiscated. It seems people of all races sit on their porch carving wood. The only difference, as it appears to be, is the instrument. While Dwarfs use axes, halflings use switchblades and Half Orcs sheriffs use whatever they confiscated from the last idiot who tried to start a brawl in the wrong town. And that was a Rapier. And the rapier was carving rather strongly on the piece of wood, for the sheriff was angry at his deputy. The deputy, a dwarf, had been talking to the baker's daughter for hours while on watch, and the prisoner, the bloody bastard, had escaped. The sheriff didn't care much for his deputy, and held him in contempt, and prison, and was soon to be taken to what he liked to call the slaughter post. He wouldn't have done that if he had cared for his deputy. The things he cared about, he never got angry with. The things he didn't care about never saw his sweet side, if you might say that a half orc has one. Alas, he didn't care much for his keen, and spat the floor when he saw the raggidy outcast strolling through town. In spite of himself, just to avoid having a beggar or thief in the streets, he shouted:
-Oy!
Our boy turned, saw who the shouter was and, with great effort, managed to smile wihtout looking menacing. He strode to the sheriffs hut.
The sheriff measured him up. He saw the look of hope.
That's bad. This kid is here to stay. He won't be leaving. At least, until next year. Don't want him prowling the streets, nor hiding in the forest or the mountains - starved - thinking some stupid things and making some silly others. Looks the sort who would do just anything for a loaf of bread. And I can't, WE can't tolerate just anything. This won't stand. And I can't kick him out just like that. He saw the good build of the still growing kid and decided that the smithy could use an apprentice. He knew, before the boy opened his mouth, that both the smithy and the boy would agree. He said so. And the boy did. So did the smithy. When a bad tempered half orc enters your shop with a rapier, a giant half carved club and yet another sturdy half orc, "No" is not a word that comes easily and without effort to your mind. Next morning, the Half Orc was wielding a hammer.
Leave him, we must, banging at a piece of iron, for now. Return to him in time, we shall.
A song can be a mischievous thing
Last time we saw our boy, he was enthusiastically hammering away.
What we didn’t tell you, is that, as he hammered and sang (rather badly) he was also looking at the people walking down and up the street. People who, obviously, looked back. If a hammering half orc doesn’t call your attention, be sure, a singing half orc will. It’s probably something you’ll never, ever forget. It will haunt you for ages. No matter, the orc sang as he hammered. And nobody was brave enough to shut him up. What’s more, the sheriff seemed to like the singing, what do you know?
So, things went rather badly for a couple of years or so for the music lovers in Dubik Pass. Until a certain shady individual showed up.
He said his name was Bob. And he could sing. Not only could he sing, but that was what he did for a living. At least, these days.
Bob sang great things, about wars, soldiers who were also heroes. Ladies in distress, castles and riches.
He had a great voice. And while the sheriff preferred the singing of the new smith, said smith enjoyed the tales of the bard. He could visualize everything the bard was telling. The claws of the dragon biting flesh, the clash of swords, the giant boulders flying through the air. He was enthralled.
Alas, the bard didn’t stay long. After three nights of singing, tale-telling and dancing, the sheriff entered the Inn and saw the bard for the first time.
It was instantaneous. At the mere sight of the bard, he shouted “YOU!” but the shout was directed to what now was a cloud of smoke and nothing else. Barely two seconds later, the cliticlitclops of a horse getting away could be heard.
But the dice had been cast. Our half-orc now wanted travel and adventure, and Fate wouldn’t have the orc stay much longer at the forge. Before his apprentice training was finished, the smith died of old age and too much emotion in the arms of a lovely professional. Spring left the same day, giving way to summer, and a caravan arrived, in a long journey to Vala.
Vala, he heard. It rang rather nice. Would they take him as a fellow traveller?
He now had something to offer. He was big and ugly enough to intimidate potential thieves, knew how to fight and had his own sword and shield, plus he knew some smithing that could prove helpful along the way.
They took him in, as a protector of the caravan. For his work, he would get a daily meal. For any smithing work, he would get paid with gold.
It was settled. He was on his way to Vala. Wherever that was.
What we didn’t tell you, is that, as he hammered and sang (rather badly) he was also looking at the people walking down and up the street. People who, obviously, looked back. If a hammering half orc doesn’t call your attention, be sure, a singing half orc will. It’s probably something you’ll never, ever forget. It will haunt you for ages. No matter, the orc sang as he hammered. And nobody was brave enough to shut him up. What’s more, the sheriff seemed to like the singing, what do you know?
So, things went rather badly for a couple of years or so for the music lovers in Dubik Pass. Until a certain shady individual showed up.
He said his name was Bob. And he could sing. Not only could he sing, but that was what he did for a living. At least, these days.
Bob sang great things, about wars, soldiers who were also heroes. Ladies in distress, castles and riches.
He had a great voice. And while the sheriff preferred the singing of the new smith, said smith enjoyed the tales of the bard. He could visualize everything the bard was telling. The claws of the dragon biting flesh, the clash of swords, the giant boulders flying through the air. He was enthralled.
Alas, the bard didn’t stay long. After three nights of singing, tale-telling and dancing, the sheriff entered the Inn and saw the bard for the first time.
It was instantaneous. At the mere sight of the bard, he shouted “YOU!” but the shout was directed to what now was a cloud of smoke and nothing else. Barely two seconds later, the cliticlitclops of a horse getting away could be heard.
But the dice had been cast. Our half-orc now wanted travel and adventure, and Fate wouldn’t have the orc stay much longer at the forge. Before his apprentice training was finished, the smith died of old age and too much emotion in the arms of a lovely professional. Spring left the same day, giving way to summer, and a caravan arrived, in a long journey to Vala.
Vala, he heard. It rang rather nice. Would they take him as a fellow traveller?
He now had something to offer. He was big and ugly enough to intimidate potential thieves, knew how to fight and had his own sword and shield, plus he knew some smithing that could prove helpful along the way.
They took him in, as a protector of the caravan. For his work, he would get a daily meal. For any smithing work, he would get paid with gold.
It was settled. He was on his way to Vala. Wherever that was.
On his way to Vala
"I'm on my way, dub dee dub, I'm on my way" He sang in his head. He was happy. The people seemed nice. The last week had already given him a chance to prove his value as a smith by ironing a couple of ponies. And he certainly knew how to start a fire, or how to cook a rabbit whit wild roots and fruits better than most.
By the campfire, as he cooked, he had seen the guards training. Up and down the hill they went, with their armors on. So slow they seemed to be. But when they fenced with wooden swords... Well, that was something interesting to watch. He followed a man with his eyes, and mentally went through the motions. Feeling the tip of the imaginary sword run through the air.
Life on the way was a good life.
By day the walking along the slowly driven wagons was easy on his feet. Certainly, it was nothing like the forced marching a small orc raiding party was being put through, some miles ahead...
Suddenly, without him noticing it, a dwarf walked up to him and said hi.
"Oh bugga, here we go again" thought our boy, tired of being targeted by this people's hatred against his race.
- So... what you doing here pup?
Well... the tone wasn't the best... but it coulda been worse..
- Uhm... I was left out of my job recently... needed another one and this seemed like a nice one.
- They hired you to walk along the wagons?
- Well, no. Not exactly. I'm a skilled smith... and I can fight.
- So... you think fighting is a good job?
- .... I can see where you're going dwarf. I'm not going there. I don't like to.
- My my! A smart half orc!... Careful pup. We don't like you here.
- Careful dwarf. Bad things tend to happen to people who don't like me.
Menacing stares where exchanged.
And then, he saw it happening.
A shimmer here, a glint over there. A veteran walking with a step too stiff.
It was sheer luck, but he had seen it. They were all waiting, ready and willing. Had he gone one step further with his hand on the hilt of his sword, he wouldn't have lived to tell the story.
He relaxed the grip and looked away from the dwarf.
- I said I'm not going there dwarf.
- Hrmpf. You better watch you back.- Said the dwarf, as he walked away.
- You rest assure, dwarf, if we come across bandits, I'll have yours.
And then, as if summoned, it was in the air. It seemed to humm with energy.
He wasn't the only one to notice it. The veteran stiffened his pace again.
And there it was. Orc stench. From the northwest. Straight ahead. Coming at us. Charging. He searched the eyes of the veteran and nodded to him.
Oooooorcs! They shouted.
Seconds later, the arrow shower began.
By the campfire, as he cooked, he had seen the guards training. Up and down the hill they went, with their armors on. So slow they seemed to be. But when they fenced with wooden swords... Well, that was something interesting to watch. He followed a man with his eyes, and mentally went through the motions. Feeling the tip of the imaginary sword run through the air.
Life on the way was a good life.
By day the walking along the slowly driven wagons was easy on his feet. Certainly, it was nothing like the forced marching a small orc raiding party was being put through, some miles ahead...
Suddenly, without him noticing it, a dwarf walked up to him and said hi.
"Oh bugga, here we go again" thought our boy, tired of being targeted by this people's hatred against his race.
- So... what you doing here pup?
Well... the tone wasn't the best... but it coulda been worse..
- Uhm... I was left out of my job recently... needed another one and this seemed like a nice one.
- They hired you to walk along the wagons?
- Well, no. Not exactly. I'm a skilled smith... and I can fight.
- So... you think fighting is a good job?
- .... I can see where you're going dwarf. I'm not going there. I don't like to.
- My my! A smart half orc!... Careful pup. We don't like you here.
- Careful dwarf. Bad things tend to happen to people who don't like me.
Menacing stares where exchanged.
And then, he saw it happening.
A shimmer here, a glint over there. A veteran walking with a step too stiff.
It was sheer luck, but he had seen it. They were all waiting, ready and willing. Had he gone one step further with his hand on the hilt of his sword, he wouldn't have lived to tell the story.
He relaxed the grip and looked away from the dwarf.
- I said I'm not going there dwarf.
- Hrmpf. You better watch you back.- Said the dwarf, as he walked away.
- You rest assure, dwarf, if we come across bandits, I'll have yours.
And then, as if summoned, it was in the air. It seemed to humm with energy.
He wasn't the only one to notice it. The veteran stiffened his pace again.
And there it was. Orc stench. From the northwest. Straight ahead. Coming at us. Charging. He searched the eyes of the veteran and nodded to him.
Oooooorcs! They shouted.
Seconds later, the arrow shower began.
First Blood
Most stories today have an "arrow shower" scene. You know? The hero is with his back against the wall, covering himself from volley after volley of enemy fire. Classic.
The thing is, I'm pretty darn sure that they don't really convey how bloody paralizing it is.
All you hear is how the man got up in the midst of it all, shouted and ran against the archers... Since, you see, it's common logic that archers make poor infantry against a head-on charge.
And all our hero had ever known about archers were stories, but...
When you can feel the "THUD!" of each iron point striking against the little piece of wood your back is against, you can actually feel your legs turning to pulp, your head going light, your arms stiffening. You try to strengthen your sword grip, but your hands won't stop shaking.
There's only one word in your head.
FUCK.
That little piece of wood covering you is the only place in the world you can be where you wouldn't be killed. And you make yourself small. Smaller than you think you can be, when you see the death mongers strike just a feet away.
And it keeps going. THUD! THUD! THUD! THUD! It doesn't stop. It won't let you get up. TH-THUD! THUD! TH-TH-TH-THUD! That little piece of wood is trembling. Soon it will be nothing but splinters.
And of course, it takes more than you or I have in ourselves to stand up. It takes a valiant, strong, commanding voice to make you take a knee, unsheath your sword and charge the enemy.
CHARGE!!!
It was the dwarf.
The merchants remained under cover. They didn't even raise their eyes.
The thing is, I'm pretty darn sure that they don't really convey how bloody paralizing it is.
All you hear is how the man got up in the midst of it all, shouted and ran against the archers... Since, you see, it's common logic that archers make poor infantry against a head-on charge.
And all our hero had ever known about archers were stories, but...
When you can feel the "THUD!" of each iron point striking against the little piece of wood your back is against, you can actually feel your legs turning to pulp, your head going light, your arms stiffening. You try to strengthen your sword grip, but your hands won't stop shaking.
There's only one word in your head.
FUCK.
That little piece of wood covering you is the only place in the world you can be where you wouldn't be killed. And you make yourself small. Smaller than you think you can be, when you see the death mongers strike just a feet away.
And it keeps going. THUD! THUD! THUD! THUD! It doesn't stop. It won't let you get up. TH-THUD! THUD! TH-TH-TH-THUD! That little piece of wood is trembling. Soon it will be nothing but splinters.
And of course, it takes more than you or I have in ourselves to stand up. It takes a valiant, strong, commanding voice to make you take a knee, unsheath your sword and charge the enemy.
CHARGE!!!
It was the dwarf.
The merchants remained under cover. They didn't even raise their eyes.
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