I was born and raised in the small hamlet of Oxpool. My mother was a human, and my father was an orc. My mother Lena saw a wounded orc, left for dead by his company while she was doing the laundry at the nearby stream. She felt compassion for him, and over the course of a couple months healed him as well as she could. However, he was never strong enough to fight again. Because of this, he didn’t dare go back to the orcs. He stayed in our village, and fell in love with my mom. This was my father, Thrakk. When I was born, my parents received some nasty threats and looks from some people in town, but others were supportive. As the years went on more and more people in town accepted us, and I was treated as a normal human kid by almost everyone. This was mainly due to my father’s good nature and love for the people.
 
From a young age I was taught about both of my parent’s cultures. So I have a respect for both orcs and humans, and I know that not all orcs are terrible and bloodthirsty, there can be love and goodness in them. Even though my father wasn’t strong enough to fight anymore, he taught me to fight the way he did, dual wielding axes. I grew strong and able with my blades, and he helped sharpen my mind too. He helped me study battle tactics, so I could understand how to analyze the moves of my enemies and disrupt them. I became the protector of my hamlet. I defended Oxpool numerous times from wolves, bandits, and even a fully grown orc (even if he was drunk and injured). People grew to trust me and depend on me to keep the hamlet safe. They slept easier at night knowing that I was there if something went wrong.
 
Three years ago my village was attacked by something different. I woke up to a loud explosion in one of the nearby huts. I grabbed my blades and rushed outside. As I ran to the center of town, I saw an orc with some kind of magic stick. He pointed it at a hut near me and the temperature dropped, the hut was then covered in ice. I charged towards him with my blades out. He looked at me and laughed as he said “There is nothing you could do to stop Grishnog Gashur.” Then he cast some spell at me and before I could do anything I was put to sleep. I woke up the next morning, and the village was in ruins. Some huts burnt to ash, some frozen in place, and some blown to pieces. But I could not find any bodies. I have no idea if anyone in my hamlet survived. My parents, and everyone that I knew were gone. I had failed my people, I wasn’t strong enough or powerful enough to protect them.
 
Since that day there has been a desire for revenge that fuels my every move. It gives me the push that I need to keep going and learning when all the rest of my hope is gone. But I am patient with this. I know that I’m not strong enough to take him on right now. I need to train and get even more powerful (and maybe learn some magic). In the past three years, I have gone from hamlet to hamlet in this region taking on work and trying to help the townsfolk. Helping them gives me similar feelings to when I would protect the people of Oxpool. Everywhere I go I try to learn arcana and magic tips. I have seen the raw power that magic can bring, and the damage it can do.
 
However, with this desire to learn magic I also have a slight fear of it. When I’m in battle, and I hear spells being cast I am reminded of that night, and occasionally I will be overcome with visions of explosions, my hamlet in ruins, and my dead parents (even though I never saw their dead bodies).