Working, after a fashion {historical}

I finally earned enough to buy more ink without going hungry, so I'll fill in the last few months. I still can't stay in one place for long, and I don't think I ever will. But my yearning for wandering is apparently quite rare, and the village folk are happy to give me small amounts of gold to help them move some of their vast numbers of things between villages. Most of the cart drivers seem a little afraid of me, but glad to have me on their side, several times robbers have beset us, and I had to fight for both our lives.
So I try to go where the winds take me, now I can't even see the mountains on the horizon. I miss them, but I think the constant reminder was starting to grate on my sanity.
My life has been remarkably peaceful, although every village gives me cold looks, probably because there aren't many half orcs here, and no orcs at all. At least in the villages anyway. I hear tell that tribes of orcs still live in the forests, they are usually spoken of with fear, but I might go find them someday, to see if I can reconnect with my kin. I did get into a fight over nothing with a drunken elf, who seemed to resent my presence in "his" tavern. He drew his sword and was intent on spilling my guts across the cobbles, so I called on my magic to end the fight quickly. Fortunately neither party was too injured, I think my ice knife gave shook him to his senses.
I remember when Balzthar showed me that spell for the first time, when I had just started being his apprentice. I was in awe of him then, for what he could do, and although I can now cast these spells as well as he could, the awe never really wore off. Apparently he held me when I was a newborn babe, as the old druid Mellca spoke the words of the prophecy I now know so well. It seems fitting that I was there for the end of his life, as he was there at the start of mine. I still remember the day the rest of his family left him for the lowlands. As he walked up the mountain and left me, frantically scrambling, far behind. I caught up with him as he was taking his last breaths, and the blood seeped from his wounds to stain the snow. They were the first to leave, years before anyone else did, and the grief and shame must have been too much for him to bear.
I hope I don't end up like that, there's noone here who can perform my last rites.