In the olden days, was the golden age of orc civilization; Settled in the Isle of Smoke, these brutes made a living out of war and destruction; raids and pillages briefly followed the word of orc arrival, and crowds of people ran as their homes burned down. This chaos was perpetuated with the invention of orc ships, as they sailed to Dreksalfa. They settled as tribes, distant from each other as they slowly migrated throughout the cold wasteland of Dreksalfa, slaying epic beasts and pillaging the settlements of lesser beasts as their reign of destruction continued for decades. Their reign was only quelled by the armies of men, elves, and dwarves, and orc tribes were fragmented forever, conflict and bloodshed kindling the flame of racism throughout the kingdoms.
An age later, orcs and half-orcs within a small strip of land near the mountains gathered into a tribe of raiders and pillagers, the best of their race sent to conquer villages and other settlements. This tribe was named "Gak'mulak," the ancient orc word for rebirth. Risen from Gak'mulak was a fierce half-orc named Tradok, heir to the chieftain and among the strongest, challenging the might of even orcs. Brother to the orc warlock Guluk, the tribe was eventually destroyed after a night-time attack led by the empire; few survived, including Tradok and Guluk, who parted ways; they didn't understand each other's philosophies, for the art of demonic invocation was more intellectual than the art of hitting and smashing.
And so Tradok traveled into the forest to escape the eyes of the empire, and found himself within the confines of nature itself; in the rough darkness he found solace. In while in deep contemplation within the raining wilderness, he discovered a black foal laying isolated under an oak tree and a lone puppy sitting next to it. He went near the animals, noting their fear, but making it vanish with a gentle stroke of his meaty hands. With further investigation, in the foggy distance he made out a broken down trade caravan and a dead driver; probably transporting animals, the rest of which other than these two dead. Tradok took off his hide coat and laid it over the helpless animals before he moved to create shelter, uncovered in the cold rain as he worked for some time. When the large leen-two canopy was finished, Tradok took the animals into his arms and pulled them close as he slept the night and relentless rain away.
Silently, he awoke and so did the animals; the sun was shining above the horizon and little glares reflected off the morning dew of the lively green grass; he left the animals within the canopy and set out to gather materials and food. He hunted animals for himself and the puppy and gathered grasses for the foal before treading through the damp ground back to his makeshift shelter, finding it laying against the large log he built it upon. He motioned the puppy out, and it willfully obeyed when Tradok waved a small piece of pork he hunted from a boar. The puppy strode forward and jumped up, but Tradok shook his head.
"No. Dog sit." The puppy continued to gawk dumbly at Tradok, earning a sigh from the half-orc, who knelt down to push the puppy's butt down against the ground, and then fed him a piece of the pork. Hours later, when Tradok attempted the same stratagem, the puppy sat without question upon command and hungrily took his meat. Next was the horse; dogs were easy, Tradok's tribe used wardogs often. Horses were seldom used for combat, but his father used one to fight and showed Tradok the basics.
"Horse want eat food," he said in simple words to the foal as he drew its gaze to the grass; hungrily, it began to chew. For weeks, Tradok continued training and caring for his animals, and eventually began to train them to hunt and attack. After years, nightly the dog would bring game, and nightly the dog received praise. The horse showed speed and strength, and Tradok admired it. Tradok then brought the dog and the stallion, now named "Sheila" and "Mordor", to a nearby town where he spent a portion of the gold his father left him to have the horse fitted for armor and horseshoes, and to have an actual blacksmith sharpen the greataxe he had his whole life. But a thought occurred to him; why have a sharp blade, when your purpose is no longer that of a cruel barbarian, but that of a forest hermit? He pondered this thought, lost in the sense of that he was lost in life, as he entered the tavern. He saw adventurers gazing at a board of posters made to hire people, the bartender to order a drink, and even one bringing in a beast's head to show off to his friends.
"Adventure..."
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Topic: Domurinn: An Open-World Adventure (D&D 3.5 OOC) (Read 13383 times)