Post by Azgakh on Oct 4, 2013 0:56:59 GMT -5
Azgakh, or so her came to call himself after his birth name of ‘Dorik’ was cast off long ago, was a child born of pain and anguish. His mother was the unfortunate ‘survivor’ of an orc raid upon one of the tribal settlements on the base of the Frigid Bluffs that left the men’s bodies strewn out over the snow and the women left for dead. The race of the child growing within her womb was unmistakable as the gestation period lasted scarcely over three months. The orcs were quick to grow, after all… and could be rather long-lived as well, if their penchant for war didn’t always cause their deaths within the first thirty years of their lives Even among the most polite, civilized, strong-willed people, the children born from these moments were abominations to be killed upon birth. It was only by the good will of that woman who had sworn to love her child no matter the ill events that caused her pregnancy that Dorik lived; though, survival was not much in that harsh land. She could not remain with the tribe that took her in during the child birth, instead fleeing into the frozen forest just before her labor to travel on during the chill of winter. It had been a potentially deadly choice, but one that must have been blessed by the gods as both mother survived the childbirth with her newborn with only one issue: The cold of the endless winter storm sapped all color from the half-orc’s flesh, leaving him a ghostly shade of white.
His life was one of isolation, silence, and deception. Always the disfigured boy that had been afflicted with frostbite on his face or being nothing but cargo stuffed into the back of a wagon, Dorik began to grow a distinct hate for the armored men with their steel weapons and egos that thought themselves so strong and clever. Always the knights that went out of their way to protect his mother who was in herself so very, very weak; giving herself and her body in the markets to purchase food or clothing. They were vagabonds and travelers and had been for the first ten years of his life. The quick growing boy looked nearly a teenager when they stumbled far enough east to bump into the Knockskull Mountains – and into the first Alzorc citizens they’ve seen. The Alzorc were more than willing to take his mother up on her trade. With no need for chivalry and a purse full of coin, the Zorcan man took steps further; harming his ever-crying mother and insulting the cloaked, disfigured blond boy. It was the last thing that he ever did. Dorik took pleasure in ripping the tongue from the gaping throat of the boasting man who had believed himself to be so powerful and clever… And soon ended his mother’s incessant wailing as well. She was weak. There was no room for weakness in his life.
Dorik cast off his name, donning one he had always heard in the stories growing up: Azgakh. In the stories, he had been a feared orc that mothers used to warn their children not to be caught in the forest after dark. It was a name of power, and one that seemed all too appropriate. Fleeing further east through the pass, it was not particularly difficult to find a merchant vessel in need of protection to purchase the services of the youthful half-orc. Azgakh lived a life of mercenary work, piracy, and crime for many years after such; traveling from place to place only to prove himself against those that might dare to claim themselves as ‘strong’. Never donning armor and never wielding a weapon, it was his mission to become the perfect warrior; a true monster to fear in the night.
His life was one of isolation, silence, and deception. Always the disfigured boy that had been afflicted with frostbite on his face or being nothing but cargo stuffed into the back of a wagon, Dorik began to grow a distinct hate for the armored men with their steel weapons and egos that thought themselves so strong and clever. Always the knights that went out of their way to protect his mother who was in herself so very, very weak; giving herself and her body in the markets to purchase food or clothing. They were vagabonds and travelers and had been for the first ten years of his life. The quick growing boy looked nearly a teenager when they stumbled far enough east to bump into the Knockskull Mountains – and into the first Alzorc citizens they’ve seen. The Alzorc were more than willing to take his mother up on her trade. With no need for chivalry and a purse full of coin, the Zorcan man took steps further; harming his ever-crying mother and insulting the cloaked, disfigured blond boy. It was the last thing that he ever did. Dorik took pleasure in ripping the tongue from the gaping throat of the boasting man who had believed himself to be so powerful and clever… And soon ended his mother’s incessant wailing as well. She was weak. There was no room for weakness in his life.
Dorik cast off his name, donning one he had always heard in the stories growing up: Azgakh. In the stories, he had been a feared orc that mothers used to warn their children not to be caught in the forest after dark. It was a name of power, and one that seemed all too appropriate. Fleeing further east through the pass, it was not particularly difficult to find a merchant vessel in need of protection to purchase the services of the youthful half-orc. Azgakh lived a life of mercenary work, piracy, and crime for many years after such; traveling from place to place only to prove himself against those that might dare to claim themselves as ‘strong’. Never donning armor and never wielding a weapon, it was his mission to become the perfect warrior; a true monster to fear in the night.