"Move or I'll take your head from your shoulders,
whelp!"
Horc stumbled forward, coated in his parent's
blood and not fully aware of what just had happened. All he knew was that the
village he grew up in was now obscured in smoke and fog and the cries of people
he knew and grew up with split the air constantly. Fear coated him like a sticky
ooze, but, he wasn't fully aware of what he was afraid of and why he was so
scared. At the age of 4, the only thing that kept him moving and silent was his
inherent survival instinct, the desire to stay alive no matter the
circumstances. He didn't even know that he'd never see his parents again, nor
see his village struck by the first rays of sunlight. All he knew was that he
was surrounded by chaos and it scared him to his very marrow, to see people
struck down for no more than not walking quick enough or crying too loudly. He
also knew that the people committing this mindless violence against his people
were his father's people, the orc. He seethed inside, a bubble of rage formed in
his stomach, pushed his way through his throat. He vomited and caught a cuff to
a head for his trouble.
Running. He was running. He managed to elude his
captors while they were having their way with one of the women. He saw what
appeared to be a gigantic fortress at the end of the forest, a place forbidden
to go by his people, a place that was described as a bastion for humans that
could kill with a touch alone. He ran while lead coursed through his veins and
air caught in his throat. He made it to the doorstop until the lead hit his
brain and the air couldn't make it into his lungs.
Training. He was made the brewer for his seeming
supernatural taste for all things ale and his ability to still stand after so
many "samples" and the fact that brewing left many hours for solitude. He was a
brooding child who latched onto his masters, merely for the fact that they were
human and he wanted to reject all that was orc about him after that terrible
night. However, his orc side persisted, in the fact that he was always far too
blunt and obvious in his discourse. He seemed to have no mind for the subtleties
of language nor did he seem to care for the feelings of others. He was also not
the sharpest child, never getting past basic reading and writing and not being
able to pick up on math nor the higher philosophy of the monk teachings.
However, he did seem to have an innate sense of himself and who he was and was
much better at mediation and connecting with himself than monks even twice his
age. However, due to his brewer's profession, he drank. And fought. Alot. He got
into many a scrap with a fellow student who made a crack about his ancestry,
and, some that merely "looked at him wrong". Eventually he learned that fighting
without a reason was pointless and only contributed to the chaos he so loathed.
However, he still drank and was known for not exactly backing down from a
challenge, nor was he willing to listen to his honor be besmirched while people
questioned his heritage.
For that, he was told to leave the monastery and
find his own way in the real world, where there wouldn't be a teacher to break
up a fight every time he was called a 'green skin'. He left willingly, not
knowing that the world had alot more in store for him then was expected, and
that people wouldn't stick to fists that bruise during fights, nor did everyone
forgive him his drinking vice. Yes, there was alot to see for
him.
