Tharak

Tharak just wanted to make a living. The Orcs regarded him as a half breed, a joke. The humans saw him as a joke, he was just an inbreed that belonged with the Orcs. So between the edges of civilized folk and the wild world he tried to make a life worth living. A small hunting cabin west of Daggerford was where he called home. He hunted and traded game with the giants for protection. He noticed that if he stuck to the outskirts of town, he was left alone. He could grab a few pints of whatever the tavernkeeper passed as ale these days.

When the red wizards showed up everything went sideways. The Giants became aggressive, then raised their prices, soon after trade had stopped all together, they became aggressive. Accusations that Tharak had let loose Golems upon their tribes. False of course, but prove that to a giant. Then the attacks started. Golems for sure, but never focused. Almost as if they were let loose with no direction. For a while Tharak defended his territory. Once he spent more time defending than he did hunting he knew his quiet existence had ceased.

As always, when one side pushed too hard, push the other way. Stay in the cracks. That's how Tharak has survived. On a rainy evening he packed up his belongings and headed East.

He decided that it couldn't hurt to get a few pints of ale at his usual watering hole. Or at least a few passing glances at that redheaded barmaid.

The night was quiet as he drank his skunk ale. Hoping to catch a good buzz and start anew in the morning, he noticed how the tavern had started to clear out. Talks of the red wizards seemed to spook the crowd. Never the less he had ale to drink.

As soon as he raised his first pint, for his first sip, some drunken patron decided to snag his cloak with his foot as he passed. Tharak stood before the pint even hit the floor. This one, this one would pay. His Orc blood boiled as he turned, cocking his fist back as he got a better look at the fool.