Lorgun Nine Fingers

Orc (Barbarian)
Ironborn – Level 1

Age: 18
Height: 7′ 2″
Weight: 314 lbs
Hair: Black
Eyes: Black
Favored Region: Northern Reaches
Favored Weapon: Greater Vardatch

Lorgun Nine Fingers was born in the hoary cradle of the Ice Wall Mountains. A proud member of the Shorn Mother Tribe, he spent his early years listening to the wisdom of the kurasatch udareen; the mother-wives of Izrador. Through these chosen priestesses that ruled his tribe, ruled the mighty orc race, Lorgun learned well his place in the world and prepared for the day that we would march into the lands of the weak fey and the human cattle, bearing the iron will of the Shadow in a bloody fist. He fought his brothers daily, lost a finger, gained a name, earned a reputation and soon, his day arrived.

During the long trek south, he mused upon where his ferocity would be directed. Where would the will of Izrador send him to deal death? The forests of the suckling elves, perhaps. Lorgun was eager to bend one of their frail females to his will. Mayhaps it would be the lands of the horse-shagging humans, where one as powerful as he would quickly become a warlord and surround himself with slaves and glory. Such thoughts danced in his skull as he marched, but none of them could touch the bloodlust he felt when his column finally stopped at Kardoling.

This outpost in the foothills of the Kaladrun Mountains was a major resupply point for the armies fighting in the underground citadels of the orcs’ most hated foe. If Lorgun was here, it could mean only one thing: he was going to slaughter dwarves.

But a fortnight passed, then another, and Lorgun remained in Kardoling, watching as other, weaker orcs went up into the mountains to fight. He was ordered to the garrison, forced to suffer tedious, daily patrols out into the southern plains, to guard weakling goblin slavers and their harvest of halfling nomads. This, he was reduced to. And further insult was the wet-eyed legate placed to rule Kardoling. This human claimed to be ordained by the Shadow, but orcs were the chosen of Izrador and Lorgun’s blood rose whenever the man dared give orders. Lorgun did not fear him, nor did he fear his magic-sniffing hounds. He feared nothing save the wrath of his god; a god whose consorts had weaned Lorgun’s entire race.

Day by day, Lorgun’s ire grew. He had been in service for near a year and was not yet Blooded. One grey morning as he escorted yet another slaver patrol back to the outpost, his anger boiled over and he broke the skull of a goblin that leered at him and claimed the runt’s lone catch as his own. The halfling was ill and starving, weaker than most of its mousey race. Lorgun could not tell if it was male or female, they all looked alike to him. He put it to work at the outpost, hoping to gain a few days labor out of it before it expired. He made the rat oil his weapons and fetch water. He fed it scraps and did nothing to protect it from the cuffs it received from his fellow soldiers when he sent it to fetch him gruel from the stew pot. After a week, the thing had not died. It was recovering somewhat and Lorgun found a mite of respect growing for its resilience. Before a moon’s turn, its sickness was gone and Lorgun realized it would live.

It was the custom of all Shorn Mother Tribe orcs to keep their heads shaved and Lorgun began using the halfling to keep his pate free of stubble.

It tried to cut his throat.

It was a clumsy attempt and Lorgun was barely scratched before he slammed the back of his head into the rat’s face, breaking its nose and sending it sprawling to the amusement of the barracks. By the time Lorgun was done kicking the thing, it was barely fit to eat. That did not stop his barracks mates. They laughed and feasted. Lorgun only watched.

Over the following days, Lorgun’s mind kept turning to the halfling. He had thought it weak, but it surprised him. It lived, it endured. And then it tried to kill him. All impossible tasks. But it had tried. The humans were cattle, the halflings were vermin. Even the dwarves could not hope to win against the Shadow. They all fought against an enemy greater than themselves. While Lorgun did what? Watched after mewling goblins, played nursemaid to slaves and bent the knee to a false prophet? No. Lorgun Nine Fingers would not lower himself to such.

Two days after he killed his slave, Lorgun slipped away from Kardoling before the sun rose. He tracked a party of goblins he knew to be camped in the plains and was on them before an alarm could be raised. He butchered the slavers and freed their catch. There were nine of them. Nine. It was an omen. The halflings stared with wide eyed confusion before fleeing into the tall grass. Lorgun headed west, towards the River Eren. From there he could reach Erenhead and disappear; convince the gnomes to shuttle him wherever he wished to go on one of their barges.

Izrador would know of his betrayal. That was certain and Lorgun would be punished. He did not care. He was a true warrior. A true warrior does not fight cows and rats. The orcs were the strongest race in the world. And that made them the only foe worth fighting.