Old School Fantasy RP IC 1
Sitting alone in a damp cell, he bitterly accepted the short time he had to sleep.
Clad in only a crude pair of mud encrusted moccasins and a pair of tattered slacks a size too small for his large six and a half foot frame, he did not shiver nor shake. His home in the Mohran mountains was always cold, and even then he did not wear much more than a pair of trousers, boots and a blacksmiths apron. Nor did he fear his captors enough to shake, as cruel as they were.
He would break out, but despite his size he was still only one man, and a tired, sore man at that. If only he could get his hands on some sort of club he might stand a chance, but the jailers kept all weapons and items that could become weapons well out of his reach.
He drifted off into a light sleep that brought back memories of his home, his father and the beauty of the stone.
Sovryn Mohran was the son of Guhl Mohran, High Lord of the Mohran mountains, great-great-great grandson of the mountain ranges namesake. He was born and raised in the town of Gamund, which was a large settlement that stretched from the innards of the mountain, out onto the mountainside.
By the age of seventeen (Sorengar still count on the same calendar as men due to their presence both in and out of the mountains), Sovryn was already a competent warrior, and stood above many men twice his age, and his skill with the hammer and anvil was great indeed.
So when Guhl Mohran's home was brought under threat of attack and plagued by skirmishes by the allied forces of the Grey Dwarves, Goblins and Orcs, the task was handed to Sovryn to seek aid from the surrounding lands, which were held in good standing with Gamund due to healthy trade relations established.
While on the road, Sovryn and his small band were beset upon by bandits, bandits too well armed for the common brigands and cut-throats that robbed peasant wagons. They had magical weapons and, struck down Sovryn's men with arrows of poison, leaving only Sovryn and two others alive.
They were eventually sold to the gladiator pits in the Capital, where both men were eventually killed in the bloodsport. One man was sliced open at the throat by a maniac while the other was savaged by a gryphon.
Sovryn so far had refused to fight, and was still alive. It made him something of a villain to the crowds, but also a spectacle to be seen.
None of them seemed to know who he was, though he caught bits and pieces from both the jailers and the harsh crowds, that he was being advertised as an aberration, a coupling of whore and Orc.
Nothing offended him more.
With the heavy click-clack of his cell door being unlocked he jolted awake, his eyes focusing quickly as two burly jailers approached.
"You're up, you filth. Time for the pit, and you better bloody fight this time or I'll have you lashed and branded until the sun comes up and then some more!"
The jailers yanked Sovryn's chains, pulling him momentarily to his feet before he lost his balanced and tumbled to the muddy floor. It was a position of great indignity and he struggled to swallow his anger.
Instead he got to his feet and fixed the jailer with a cold leer.
"How about you get in the pit with me, and the crowd can watch me tear your head off," he said in his strange accent. Most people who met Sorengar often mistook them for otherwise grossly large men imitating dwarves, though their accents were very similar.
The quip was met with a sharp blow to the gut by the jailers club and Sovryn was dragged out of his cell to be prepared to fight.