Haphazard and Emergent
an orcish fighter who wasnt raised by the orcs
Early one morning, on a perfect spring day, the great tribe of the Dushnikh Yal orc stronghold held a massive celebration, with none more raucous than the proud stronghold chief and his 3rd wife of 4. The massive event was to celebrate the day of birth of his first son, who he named after the great ancient orcish king Trinimac. Many sacrifices were made to the mighty one eyed God Grumsh, and the entire tribe drank and feasted the day away. Unbeknownst to the partying tribe, a long planned revenge plot against them was in it’s final stage, and mere minutes from execution. An army of Nordic worriers hell bent on revenge for a number of devastating raids on their villages committed by the tribe of the Dushnikh Yal stronghold. Having waited until the sounds of revelry died down, and the stronghold seemed to be going to sleep, the Nords ordered their archers to fire on the longhouse with flaming arrows. The sleeping orc tribe was roused by the smell of smoke before realizing the longhouse in which they slept was on fire, in a mad scramble for the well as every container they could grab, not fathoming that the fire could be the starting salvo of a Nordic onslaught, it wasn’t until the majority of the strongholds inhabitants were already outside before the Nords launched the brunt of their attack. Fireball, normally a devastating spell when cast against an enemy, rarely ever cast more than once or twice in any single encounter, but with 6 Nordic mages casting, one fireball the moment the previous one dissipated, the attack didn’t leave a single orc standing, much less breathing. In a matter of 10 seconds the population of Dushnikh Yal dropped from 58 to 12 and a newborn, and not a single drop of Nordic blood had been spilled, or blade so much as swung. Knowing they could not stay in the longhouse without being burned alive, the remaining Orcs came out defensively with counter spells ready for any more destructive magic thrown at them, and their blades ready for a closeup fight. The Nordic soldiers descended upon them picking off the Orcs one by one, making fun of them as their numbers dwindled. As the blonde haired worriers finished off all but a single, green skinned, tusker woman, they realized why she hadn’t jumped at the prospect of combat. She was clutching a tiny new born Orc boy. The leader of the Nordic mob, a Jarl, by the name of Lars Gunderson reached for the boy, and pulled him from his screaming mother, before slashing her throat for her efforts. The Jarl claimed the child of his own, a living trophy, and he raised him as a slave, even forcing the young Orc to join his town guard as a jailer to keep him out of sight of the uneasy, Orc hating, people of his hold. As the young Orc grew up the adopted son of the Jarl, he was given the name Mogg, and allowed to take his adopted father’s name Gunderson, but growing up that name of high birth did him no favors, as he was picked on and tormented by the other children of the hold relentlessly. With that endless bullying Mogg was forced to learn to fight at a young age, becoming especially adept with great weapons (relative to his still childish size) he learned to be particularly effective with a polearm. As he came of age and was allowed to do more in the town guard than just file their jail paperwork, he began to earn the begrudged respect of the people as a peacekeeper, until the day a band of traveling merchants ran into 17 year old Mogg, an old Orc in party said the boy had a familiar face, and told him a few stories about an old Orcish stronghold that has long since been destroyed, a place called Dushnikh Yal. Feeling uneasy about this new found knowledge, he went to the bardic collage to learn what he could from their various stories, poems, and songs. He was able to gather that Dushnikh Yal had been a stronghold tribe that continuously raided and sacked the surrounding areas, including the hold of Jarl Gunderson, and that one day the Nords took up arms and struck down the violent Orcish tribe and the Jarl took the Chief’s newborn son as a trophy. Heartbroken, and distraught over his newfound knowledge, Mogg packed his things, grabbed his glaive and left in the night to join the armies of the King Goldbreaker in a far off land where the people of Jarl Gunderson would never run into him again… until he is ready to deal with them once and for all!