Pre-Logue.
Born beneath the looming peaks of Mithral Hall, the half-orc’s earliest years are a void. Faces blur, voices echo and fade, names dissolve into mist. Whatever childhood he might have known vanished before he could even grasp its meaning. His father, a human blacksmith’s apprentice among the dwarves, toiled in the glow of their forges but never found true belonging. Hardship came swiftly. When loss struck, grief and drink hollowed him out, leaving only a shadow of the man he had been. Everything changed during a caravan supply run beyond the safety of the hall. Orc raiders descended upon the caravan, slaughtering some and taking others captive. Among the raiders was an orc woman who saw something in the broken human blacksmith. Rather than leave him to die, she secretly freed him.
What began as gratitude slowly became affection. In time, he returned to meet her in secret beyond the mountains and forests surrounding Mithral Hall. Against all reason, against the hatred of both their peoples, they fell in love. Eventually, the orc woman bore him a son. When the child was born, the father made one final attempt to return home. He pleaded with the dwarves for mercy, hoping they might allow the child a place among them. But when they learned the infant was born of both human and orc blood, judgment came swiftly. The family was banished outright.
Still, the parents refused to abandon one another. In a twisted ironic action of love, and with nowhere left to turn, they carried their child to a small settlement not far from Mithral Hall, a rough village where a few half-orcs and other outcasts lived beyond the reach of dwarven judgment. There, believing the boy might have a chance at a life free from persecution, they left him in the care of the village… and never returned. - Whether they died, fled, or chose never to come back, he never learned.
The boy grew into a massive, broad-shouldered woodsman who could pass for a particularly ugly human at a glance, provided he kept his hood low and his temper lower. The villagers gave him a name, but it never truly felt like his own. Deep inside, he always sensed that something was missing: a truth buried somewhere in the fog of his past. He never knew his parents’ faces. Never knew where he truly came from. Only fragments remain the ringing of hammers on anvils, the scent of pine and smoke, and distant dreams of stone halls deep beneath the mountains.
Pro-Logue.
Travelling south into the woods afternoon for a hunt the winds began to howl and scream, a storm. The largest that's been seen in quite some time. Snow, falling like an avalanche it quickly covered the forest and Warthagg marched faster, hoping for some sort of shelter. A howl, not the wind, but a creature, a wolf. He knew it was dangerous but the wolf likely had shelter, possibly calling others to retreat to safety. He huffed, marching faster through the falling blizzard, each step more tiring than the last. Each step raising his foot higher just to step over the piling snow. No longer, his footing gave way, a mis-step and he collapsed to the floor. Quiet sniffing, large jaws biting his collar, the wolf found him. When he came to, he awoke in a cave with the blizzard still raging outside. The wolf sat quietly at the entrance, watching. Tired, he closed his eyes again. Once-more he came to, the wolf gone, voices outside, a small hunting group found him and carried him back to their isolated village in the woods. A shrine of Gwaeron Windstrom in the center, a carved wolf by his side...
The village elder, a half-elf tracker recognize marks on his flesh, that of divine touch. The elder looked him over, as she stood she looked to the shrine. The others watched Warthagg with wary, tusks, a half-orc. Even in a town of outcasts, he was still one himself. He watched them in return, knowing that look. That look of disgust, distrust, in his head he'd wish he hadn't been found in that cave. Left to rot, left alone one last time. The elder ordered he be carried to her own personal infirmary. Days turned to weeks, and the elder and other villagers took notice of a wolf idly sitting in the distance. Watching the village, watching the infirmary. Watching Warthagg....
When Warthagg's eyes flew open to the sounds of screams. He stood quickly and bashed the door open, viscera, blood, people. People that not that long ago looked at him with disgust now looking at him with pleading eyes. He looked up and an orc, axe in hand, falling down onto the elder several feet away. Too distant, yet he reached his hand out. As he did a blast of bright energy flew from his hand and pierced the orc through the heart. It dropped dead instantly. He looked at his hand in surprise, the other orcs looked in terror. Magic.... magic in a half-orc. Dangerous, not worth their lives. They turn and fled. Himself, the elder, and a few standing villagers tended to the wounds of others. As the elder looked over Warthagg tending a child with his magic. The elder knew, Warthagg wasn't just saved by someone, but was chosen.
Eventually time came and went, the elder long passed and others of the village agreed with a heavy heart that Warthagg was not only too valuable, but too dangerous to keep in the village. He made his peace at the old elders grave, gathered supplies, and was wished well by everyone before he set out once-more. Once-more abandoned by those he was close with, but he knew this time he was worth something. He'd a purpose to follow. To help others, to guide them. Warthagg had it answered, a new city, new life. Murann, Arabel, Baldurs Gate perhaps. And as he marched south out of that village, a wolf and buck quietly stood on the hillside. The wolf turned to the deer. The deer gave a hefty snort and turned parallel with Warthagg and disappeared into the forest. The wolf turned north and disappeared as well.
Yet one question still lingers in his heart.
Who was he before the world cast him aside?
Born beneath the looming peaks of Mithral Hall, the half-orc’s earliest years are a void. Faces blur, voices echo and fade, names dissolve into mist. Whatever childhood he might have known vanished before he could even grasp its meaning. His father, a human blacksmith’s apprentice among the dwarves, toiled in the glow of their forges but never found true belonging. Hardship came swiftly. When loss struck, grief and drink hollowed him out, leaving only a shadow of the man he had been. Everything changed during a caravan supply run beyond the safety of the hall. Orc raiders descended upon the caravan, slaughtering some and taking others captive. Among the raiders was an orc woman who saw something in the broken human blacksmith. Rather than leave him to die, she secretly freed him.
What began as gratitude slowly became affection. In time, he returned to meet her in secret beyond the mountains and forests surrounding Mithral Hall. Against all reason, against the hatred of both their peoples, they fell in love. Eventually, the orc woman bore him a son. When the child was born, the father made one final attempt to return home. He pleaded with the dwarves for mercy, hoping they might allow the child a place among them. But when they learned the infant was born of both human and orc blood, judgment came swiftly. The family was banished outright.
Still, the parents refused to abandon one another. In a twisted ironic action of love, and with nowhere left to turn, they carried their child to a small settlement not far from Mithral Hall, a rough village where a few half-orcs and other outcasts lived beyond the reach of dwarven judgment. There, believing the boy might have a chance at a life free from persecution, they left him in the care of the village… and never returned. - Whether they died, fled, or chose never to come back, he never learned.
The boy grew into a massive, broad-shouldered woodsman who could pass for a particularly ugly human at a glance, provided he kept his hood low and his temper lower. The villagers gave him a name, but it never truly felt like his own. Deep inside, he always sensed that something was missing: a truth buried somewhere in the fog of his past. He never knew his parents’ faces. Never knew where he truly came from. Only fragments remain the ringing of hammers on anvils, the scent of pine and smoke, and distant dreams of stone halls deep beneath the mountains.
Pro-Logue.
Travelling south into the woods afternoon for a hunt the winds began to howl and scream, a storm. The largest that's been seen in quite some time. Snow, falling like an avalanche it quickly covered the forest and Warthagg marched faster, hoping for some sort of shelter. A howl, not the wind, but a creature, a wolf. He knew it was dangerous but the wolf likely had shelter, possibly calling others to retreat to safety. He huffed, marching faster through the falling blizzard, each step more tiring than the last. Each step raising his foot higher just to step over the piling snow. No longer, his footing gave way, a mis-step and he collapsed to the floor. Quiet sniffing, large jaws biting his collar, the wolf found him. When he came to, he awoke in a cave with the blizzard still raging outside. The wolf sat quietly at the entrance, watching. Tired, he closed his eyes again. Once-more he came to, the wolf gone, voices outside, a small hunting group found him and carried him back to their isolated village in the woods. A shrine of Gwaeron Windstrom in the center, a carved wolf by his side...
The village elder, a half-elf tracker recognize marks on his flesh, that of divine touch. The elder looked him over, as she stood she looked to the shrine. The others watched Warthagg with wary, tusks, a half-orc. Even in a town of outcasts, he was still one himself. He watched them in return, knowing that look. That look of disgust, distrust, in his head he'd wish he hadn't been found in that cave. Left to rot, left alone one last time. The elder ordered he be carried to her own personal infirmary. Days turned to weeks, and the elder and other villagers took notice of a wolf idly sitting in the distance. Watching the village, watching the infirmary. Watching Warthagg....
When Warthagg's eyes flew open to the sounds of screams. He stood quickly and bashed the door open, viscera, blood, people. People that not that long ago looked at him with disgust now looking at him with pleading eyes. He looked up and an orc, axe in hand, falling down onto the elder several feet away. Too distant, yet he reached his hand out. As he did a blast of bright energy flew from his hand and pierced the orc through the heart. It dropped dead instantly. He looked at his hand in surprise, the other orcs looked in terror. Magic.... magic in a half-orc. Dangerous, not worth their lives. They turn and fled. Himself, the elder, and a few standing villagers tended to the wounds of others. As the elder looked over Warthagg tending a child with his magic. The elder knew, Warthagg wasn't just saved by someone, but was chosen.
Eventually time came and went, the elder long passed and others of the village agreed with a heavy heart that Warthagg was not only too valuable, but too dangerous to keep in the village. He made his peace at the old elders grave, gathered supplies, and was wished well by everyone before he set out once-more. Once-more abandoned by those he was close with, but he knew this time he was worth something. He'd a purpose to follow. To help others, to guide them. Warthagg had it answered, a new city, new life. Murann, Arabel, Baldurs Gate perhaps. And as he marched south out of that village, a wolf and buck quietly stood on the hillside. The wolf turned to the deer. The deer gave a hefty snort and turned parallel with Warthagg and disappeared into the forest. The wolf turned north and disappeared as well.
Yet one question still lingers in his heart.
Who was he before the world cast him aside?