Half-Orc

Rada knelt before the altar. It was a simple affair, an upturned axe with its head half buried in the earth and a great dog’s skull hanging from the haft along with a string of thirty, hand carved wooden beads. Rada knew how many there were without even thinking about it - she’d certainly counted them enough times.

The rattle of her mother’s war skirt announced her arrival a moment before she spoke into the darkened room, “It’s time, Rada. Are you ready?”

The girl considered the question before giving the altar one last look and setting her face with determination. “I am.” She announced, rising to her feet and turning to leave with her mother at her side.

“It’s hard to believe you’re already fourteen.” Mother remarked as they made their way through their home and out onto the street. “Are you afraid?”

Rada shook her head fiercely. “No,” she replied between grit teeth, “I’m angry.”

“That your father won’t be there?” Mother asked as they approached a ring of orcs, gathered around a smoking fire. When Rada nodded, her mother clapped a hand down on her shoulder. “Good. Be angry. In the moment, don’t howl or simper. May baby girl will roar and scream and spit. My Rada will Rage.”

The ring of orcs parted as they approached, each decked out for war in scant pieces of armor, stark, white paint against their olive green skin, and a solemn look in their eyes.

“Have you decided where you want it?” Asked the oldest orc there by far, his hair and beard long ago gone gray, but the muscles beneath his aged skin were still strong - still capable of swinging an axe.

Setting herself down on the stone slab set aside for just such occasions, Rada nodded. ‘My throat.” She replied resolutely, “Just like my father.”

“A bold choice, child.” Replied the old man, with appreciation in his tone.

Moving to stand behind Rada and restrain both of the girl’s wrists, her mother joked, “Best to watch your throat, old man. There’s my blood in her. My girl’s going to Rage like the storm itself.”

A half smile on his face, the old man reached into the fire and produced a branding iron - orange and glowing, in the shape of a dog’s head on a pike. “We’ll see.” He replied, inspecting the brand carefully before moving towards Rada. “In a moment, she won’t be your girl any longer.”

Then, he gently forced Rada’s head to one side and pressed the branding iron to her flesh.

A flash of pain, the sizzle and smell of burning meat - that was all Rada felt. Hardly the spiritual experience she’d been led to expect.

‘It’s good to see you again, my little magpie.” The voice jerked Rada’s eyes open and she saw him there - her father with axe and paint, and his beads around his wrist, just as she had always remembered him.

“Father!” She struggled to move, to go to him, but something held her back by the wrists.

Oh, that’s right. She was bound, but she couldn’t remember why, or by what. That thought alone stirred a panic in her that abated only when her father’s warm hand cupped her cheek. “You’ve got your mother’s blood in you, little Rada, but my spirit. You’ll be no Krug, slavering on the battlefield for elven blood, daughter mine. You were always destined for more.”

And then, in a jarring flash, the world settled back into normalcy. The brand had been pulled away but the mark it left still burned like a lightning strike as her mother slowly released her hands.

“Her eyes…” Whispered one of the gathered elders, pointing, “They’ve gone red...”

It was her mother’s voice that came next, barely a whisper, “Look at her hands.”

Even Rada did as she was instructed, finding her father’s beads wrapped around her wrist with motes of blue-green light floating between them. It was all she could do to stare.

“I’m sorry, old friend.” Remarked the old man slyly, “It looks like you didn’t birth us a Krug after all.” Taking Rada by her free hand, he lifted her to her feet, and led her around the circle where each elder took two fingers of paint meant to mark her skin for war and instead, one by one, painted it into her hair until her entire head of it had gone white.

Only once she had finished the circle, did the old man lift her arm into the air, announcing proudly, “Rada Grommash! Shaman of the Last Wolf Tribe!”

The roar of approval was deafening, not least from her mother, who she’d never seen more proud.

Growing up a half-orc in Tyris is a mixed bag. On the one hand, you are one of the last members of your species in all of Ruelle and you have a tribe knit so close together that only the goblins can hold a candle to compare. On the other, there is always someone trying to take all that away from you.

Street Gang or Noble Tribe

In the eyes of most half-orcs within Tyris, they are simply defending the homes, businesses, and right to life that the rest of Paradise as been denying them for centuries. They may have embraced the nickname Krug Uglies thrust upon them by the elves and others, but in rites and ceremonies they still use the original name the tribe gave itself when it first formed: The Last Wolf Tribe.

When confronted with violence, they react the way they feel appropriate - with more ferocity. It’s meant to be a deterrent but in the situation in which the half-orcs find themselves replying to violence with violence only escalates the situation. And this is a cycle that has had a very, very long time to grow.

Deeply Spiritual

What almost no one knows about the half-orcs of Tyris is that they have embraced the ancestor worship native to full blooded orcs. Each half-orc who falls is given a small shrine which is visited regularly by family who recite the names of the lost in the belief that you are only truly dead when no one remembers your name.

In the past, the half-orcs have sought out the wisdom of the tribe’s shaman before entering into open warfare but the simple fact of the matter is that those with the necessary connection to the spirits are uncommon. Red eyed and white haired, often wearing ornate headdresses and ceremonial robes, they are all too easy to pick out of a crowd and the Long Knives learned long ago to pick off the shaman first.

It’s been nearly half a century since the half-orcs of Paradise had a shaman to guide them in the will of their ancestors. Any who arose now would be guarded and hidden away, secreted away from the prying ears and sharp knives of the elves.

Likely, no one outside the tribe would even know they existed.

Half Orc Traits

Ability Score Increase. Your Strength score increases by 2 and your Constitution score increases by 1.
Age. Half orcs mature a little faster than humans, reaching adulthood around the age of 1. They age noticeably faster and rarely live longer than 75 years
Alignment. Half orcs inherit a tendency towards chaos from their orcish ancestry but the deep spirituality of the Paradise tribe has lead them more towards practical neutrality. They aren’t particularly inclined towards good, and truly evil half-orcs have a habit of getting themselves killed rather quickly.
Size. Half orcs are somewhat larger and bulkier than humans and they range from 5 to well over 6 feet tall. Your size is Medium.
Speed. Your base walking speed is 30 feet.
Darkvision. Thanks to your orcish blood, you have superior vision in dark and dim conditions.You can see in dimly lit conditions within 60ft as if it were bright light and darkness, even magical darkness, as if it were low light. You cannot discern colors in darkness, only shades of gray.
Menacing. You gain proficiency in the Intimidation skill.
Relentless Endurance. When you are reduced to 0 hit points but not killed outright you can drop to 1 hit point instead. You can’t use this feature again until you finish a long rest.
Savage Attacks. When you score a critical hit with a melee weapon attack, you can roll on of the weapon’s damage dice one additional time and add it to the extra damage of the critical hit.
Tribal Tradition. You gain a feat.
Languages. You can speak, read, and write Orcish. Orcish is a harsh, grating language with hard consonants and its script is roughly hewn. You can also communicate using one of the following languages: Durasian, Vennican, Siegenthalen, Ruellen.

Origin/Ancestry

Orcus