- Animal empathy, specifically with wargs – Dakgu was raised with a pack of wargs, and they consider him one of them and he considers them family; his pack is the part of the breeding stock for Nar Mat Kordh-Ishi . He might not speak tongues very well, but he can growlingly communicate with wargs. It might be telepathic, no one can quite tell.
- Tracking. Dakgu is an infamously talented tracker. Perhaps he's spent so much time with the wargs that he has their sense of smell.
- Archery – as many a human with a price on their head, as well as the ranger Myrmith Tinuviel, found out, Dakgu is surprisingly good with a bow. See below for details
- Stealth and movement in the wild – Dakgu is a master of camouflage, able to paint himself or decorate himself with grasses, bark, mud and leaves. He crawls like a snake, climbs like a squirrel and...well, all that.
- Poultices, herbs and natural cures – He is the go-to veterinarian of the Company, as he knows ways to bring down swelling and cure fevers with natural remedies.
- Damn good forager – Dakgu learned to feed himself and a pack of hungry wargs with his bow. He knows lures, bait, traps and the whole shebang. Knowing what mushrooms can be eaten and which frogs aren't poisonous is always an asset among voracious eaters like orcs.
- Fletching – Dakgu learned a long time ago to make his own arrows. He's picky.
- Speech impediment – Dagku has a hard time speaking.
- Visible deformity – Cleft palate.

- Leather with metal plates riveted to the inside of the armor. He wears padding under that to keep it from chafing. It has bone spikes attached to parts of it which allow him to attach strips of cloth or wildlife to it to further break himself up against the foliage.
- Longbow, orcish. That means it's thicker than a human or elven bow, with a considerable draw power. Most orcs are indifferent shots, but Dakgu is an exception to that rule. While some orcs consider bows to be 'fairy weapons' the Tuskers of Nar Mat Kordh-Ishi are generally well trained...and that is partially due to the likes of Dakgu in the ranks.
- Axe; Dakgu prefers a bearded axe for fighting, something that can smash through shields or doors or whatever. A sword only has one use, but an axe has many.
- Knives; he keeps a couple of these handy.
- Belt pouches and the like; he wears a couple belts wrapped around his waist with his survival needs attached – dried food, fishhooks, rope, line, climbing claws, etc, etc. He manages to keep it fairly light, and doesn't tote around some silly backpack like others do.

Dakgu was born to Virda Wargkeeper of the Cha-Yesh, a tribe destroyed by the Graldak tribe some years ago. His mother bore him after the surviving the rape and being left for dead, and raised him among the pack of wargs she cared for. They made a living on the outskirts of human and orcish society as Virda plied her folk cures and skills with curing animals to those few humans that would let an orc near their livestock or orc tribes that would pay her a pittance for her considerable skills. She managed to scrape by on grit and her skills.

Dakgu was probably better off that way – he was born with a deformity, a cleft palate, that would have seen him killed in among the tribes of the orcs, whereas Virda raised him lovingly, for an orc, and the wargs didn't care if he couldn't speak the tongues very well. As he grew older, he became an accomplished hunter and trapper, supplementing his mother's gathering efforts, by bringing meat to the table as they moved from place to place. They tended not to stay in one area too long lest the locals decide that the local orcs and their unnatural monster-wolf pack were the cause of every deformed calf birth and bad crop in the area.

Despite these precautions, his mother was killed by human bandits; they got her and her warg when they were foraging in the badlands between tribal lands of the Graldak and the city of Urkesh, a human settlement.

In Urkesh, no one was willing to bestir themselves for one dead orc wench and her monster-wolf, but they were willing to pay gold for the bandits, who were a plague on the area. Killing the bandits was vengeance and profit; Dakgu's first blood and his way into bounty hunting. While a fourteen year old human boy would be considered too young, at fourteen, an orc was all grown up, and he spent several years hunting scalps and moving from place to place with the warg pack that he now cared for by himself – they assisted in trailing the quarry and were fed their horse, whereas he took their scalps and equipment and sold both back to humans in varying settlements. He was good at his job, able to track quarry, move silently and kill precisely, using his warg pack when it became necessary. As an orc, he always worked alone, for none would partner with him, a state of affairs that only honed his self-reliance. Despite his abilities, he was often mocked for his speech impediments and his employers often tried to cheat him, assuming him simple in the head. Betimes, he had to kill or maim a local mayor or sheriff to make his point about being paid fully for work done.

The most notorious bounty he ever pursued was no human, but the mad, renegade elven ranger Myrmith Tinuviel, a renowned archer and magic user of centuries worth of experience who had decided to wage war on the human towns of the Veldaron reach, starting with the killing of poachers but moving onto merchants, travelers and any that strayed into his range.

The hunt lasted three months wherein the two skirmished constantly; the ranger Myrmith would strike, and then Dakgu would track. Eventually, Dakgu gave up on chasing the man and laid bait of his own, trailing a caravan of loggers into the forests in secrecy, waiting for the elf to strike.

But when the elf struck, he didn't trail him. He let the ranger and his animal companions strike, slaughter the human loggers and plunder them for supplies. He trailed the ranger from a distance, learning his habits and his methods and what he did when he wasn't waging a one-knife-ear war against anything that came into his forest. By the time Dakgu had a very good idea of how the elven ranger operated, the human baron of Veldaron added a considerable bounty onto the head of Myrmith Tinuviel. A number of hunters were drawn into the region.

Dakgu hired himself as a guide and took them into the forest. These men scorned the orc with the speech impediment, ignored his advice and were brash, all of which made them very good bait. When Myrmith came for them, Dakgu managed to disappear. Using his knowledge of the elf's methods, he tracked down the elf and fought a running battle where one might assume that the orc might get the worst of it, being a stupid orc. Days of moving, ambushing and fighting, of laying traps and killing the animals and spirits the elf sent against Dakgu and his pack were not enough to finish the fight. In the end, the Orc had to rely on something else: the unexpected.

The orcish bounty hunter surprised even the elf with the last possible ploy that any haughty knife-ear would expect from a brute orc – the orc used his intelligence and knowledge to get the better of the elf. After all the tracking, he had a good idea where Myrmith's base was, and it was, predictably, a glade of lovingly-sculpted trees that served as a wildlife sanctuary. He split his pack into two; he and a couple wargs went into Myrmith's favorite glade and proceeded to urinate all over it and cut down the tree-art he'd sculpted for decades. The warg-piss caused the animals to flee, possibly to never return. This caused the elven ranger to fly into a rage. Dakgu, using his enemy's unhinged state of mind, trapped him in a snare, shot him through the chest thrice, and took his ears and scalp for proof, along with all his possessions -- the meat he left for his wargs, who complained of too much bone and too little meat.

When he presented these things to the Baron of Veldaron, he was promptly paid and promptly banished.

But by then, Nar Mat Kordh-Ishi, along with many others, had heard of Dakgu Elf-Scalper, who was sought by a mercenary warlord looking to bring Wargs into his new band of mercenaries-- Dakgu's pack were exceptionally strong and intelligent examples of the species, prized as breed-stock. Dakgu joined in the first year and has been with the unit for for six years total. In that time, he has overseen the breeding and care of the wargs, as well as to the training. While tribal orcs often abuse their wargs, Dakgu raises them his way and doesn't brook mistreatment; he insists, and the Old Eyedrinker agrees, that the Wargs are members of the unit, just as the Tuskers are, particularly given the unique advantages Warg cavalry give the Company.

He served in the pikes for a time, as all do, in order to learn the new way of war, but it came easily to Dakgu. He'd worked with his pack for so long that he understood that he had a job within a larger framework. It seemed surprising that a formerly independent, hardscrabble hunter-gatherer would easily integrate into the company, but he seemed to find a niche – he was quickly moved into the Wargs as the head keeper of the beasts, the one that knew their needs and habits the best of any in the company, and the one that a tusker had to answer to if there was anything amiss in the treatment of the warg. A couple times in the Pikes he was given shit for his deformity and speech problems, but a knife to the balls and a promise to take their scalps was enough to settle a couple of the young, dumb ones out.

Dakgu doesn't have much use for society, but he was tired of being alone when old Radush Eye-Drinker sought him out as a recruit into the company. His experiences of civilization have left him with a bitter taste in his mouth and he considers himself an outcast, and the Company a band of such. But within the company, he tends to watch people carefully and say little, since he can't speak all that well anyway. As a result, he seems calm, but the reality is that he's easily as angry as any orc – but he burns cold and mean, taking bloody and final vengeance on things that mess with him or his wargs, who are what he considers his actual family. He puts his blankets in the pen with them every night and trims claws and digs out ticks. He relished being a bounty hunter, because he got paid to kill bunnies and knife-ears, a measure of revenge on civilization, and now he's part of a mercenary unit being paid even more gold to kill even more bunnies and knife ears. Dakgu, of course, also relishes hunting some of the deadbeat employers that have tried to cheat the company out of pay. It has happened often enough that Radush brings Dakgu to the negotiating table to let employers meet the guy they'll be seeing if they don't cough up. His orders are simple; look mean and stare. It's not hard.

Dakgu's technically a part of Wargs, but functions more as a scout than anything. Dakgu can stalk for days and live off the land as few can so keeping him in a formation is often a foolhardy idea, as he is the one that can find waterholes and food sources for a hungry orcish army on the march. Few orcs know as much as he does, as the Wargs keeper and as the rider of the alpha bitch, Burzghash, about the beasts or their care. He prefers them to his fellow tuskers. In addition to Burzghash, he has a number of other wargs from his packs, riderless ones, that accompany him on the hunt; which is how they all think of scouting.

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- 'More Weight':Ever since he graduated from the Pikes into the Blades, Bel-Gond has proven himself an oddity by being able to wear a second layer of orcish plate into battle; While he might have moved slower then the rest of the blades, his prowess when he enters combat cannot be denied. This second layer of plate armor has allowed Bel-Gond to survive attacks that would normally hassle one layer of orcish armor.
- Ambidextrous: A skill that he has trained himself to take advantage of, Bel-Gond can use both hands easily enough.
- Shield Fighter: One of the few orcs in the company to have adopted the use of a shield, if in a slightly unorthodox way; Bel-Gond views the Shield to be a melee weapon cable of bludgeoning and slicing that just so happens to be good at defending the wielder. Many of Bel-Gond's foes have been surprised to find that the edges of his shield are as sharpened as any sword could hope to be... normally it is the last surprise they ever have.
-Blacksmith: Bel-Gond has the know-how and abilities to create and maintain his own equipment. He is happy to do the same for others if they ask respectfully enough.
-Accountant: Bel-Gond is surprisingly good when it comes to dealing with money.
-Knows Dwarfish:Bel-Gond can speak, understand and read most Dwarfish. A useful talent, but not one he gets to practice that often anymore.

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- Two layers of heavy armor (Left arm painted red, everything else painted white to better show off the blood.)
- One helmet (Visored)
- One falchion
- One shield (Custom made, it is a solid piece of metal with edges as sharp as a sword. Painted White to better show off the blood).
- One dagger.

Bel-Gond was the bastard offspring of an orcish raider and his dwarven mother Cherri. Strange for this sort of situation was the fact that Cherri decided to keep the child, naming him Bel-Gond after her grandfather and raising him in as loving a family home as she could provide. While the small family were both considered outcasts and scorned by those around them, Cherri raised her son on good dwarven values and did the best she could with what little she could get. She even managed to convince a dwarfish blacksmith to take Bel-Gond on as an apprentice for a time.

When Bel-Gond came of age at 14 he left home to join the newly formed Nar Mat Kordh-Ishi shortly after he heard of it because it was the only organization he had ever heard of that had any chance of actually paying him a decent wage. Before he left he promised his mother two things. The first was that whatever he got paid, he would send half of it back home to her to help her out. The second was that he would always honor his dwarven heritage.

Bel-Gond's time in the Pikes was his first real introduction to his Orcish heritage and it was an eye opener in a number of things, but not as unpleasant as it could have been after Bel-Gond had orcish beaten into him. Bel-Gond was never a problem that the Drillmasters needed to smack back into line; This made them watch him like a hawk, wary that this strange and unorcish behavior was merely a cover for more subtle issues that needed to be beaten out of the halfie. This extra surveillance by the Drillmasters actually benefited Bel-Gond a bit due to the additional training that they would put him through, as well as discouraging the more problematic orcs from attacking him due to bringing themselves into the attention of the Drillmasters.

When his training in the Pikes was complete, Bel-Gond went to the blades and learned three important lessons. 1: Even while wearing the same amount of equipment as everyone else he was still much slower then them. 2. He could carry more weight then just about everyone else. 3. Shields were a weapon that few people understood the value of. These revelations resulted in Bel-Gond donning a second layer of armor and creating a shield worthy of an orcish warrior. While many of his fellow orcs considered him something of a strange coward because of the shield, this mockery did not last for long.

The next battle that the company took part in was a brutally bloody one for the Blades, resulting in a large number of losses. Bel-Gond was the center-point of his warband's defense, surviving blows that would have felled any other orc and dishing out more death and injury then their human opponents thought possible. His actions on the field rallied the survivors of his warband around him to hold the line until the humans finally routed and either died or fled. His skill and heroics earned him his ascension to the Chosen of the First Company.

Bel-Gond was born and given as dwarven upbringing by a loving mother, despite the hardship and pain that doing so caused her over the years. Bel-Gond is absolutely devoted to his mother for everything she has done for him and to this day still arranges for half of his earnings to be sent back home in order to give her something to help support her. While his six years with the company has taught him much about what it means to be an orc, Bel-Gond still practices some dwarvish traditions that mean a lot to him; He still highly treasures his dwarven roots, even if he dislikes a lot of dwarfs. They made his mother's life hell after all...

He is actually somewhat steady tempered and hard to provoke into anger... Unless you insult his mother. Insulting his mother is a fast way to wind up with several broken bones. To date, this has only happened once while he was still in the Blades. It's common enough knowledge that it doesn't happen again.

- It's All Ogre Now – While neither an ability nor a skill, Gahrul's great size and strength are the defining contribution of the pair to the Company. The ogre wields an immense iron tower shield into battle that he uses to shield himself (and everyone behind him) from arrows and other projectiles. It is also a useful tool to wade into a formation of pikemen with and Gahrul can slam a corner into wooden gates or other barricades as an alternative to a battering ram. The ogre isn't dextrous – or smart – enough to properly use it as a weapon, but one lucky swing is all he needs.
- Halfling Hawkeye – The most honed skill between the both of them is Narzul's archery. His size and weakness mean that he can only use a shortbow, dimishing his effective range and the penetrating power of his arrows, but he can still fell a nearby enemy with a well-placed shot. Narzul rides Gahrul into battle and fires arrows at any cheeky sod that gets too close to his ogre friend.
- Crafty, Cunning Critter – His mother's side has gifted Narzul with the sudden bursts of outlandish inspiration and creativity that define the goblin race. He maintains his own equipment (including fletching new arrows) and that of Gahrul, touching up the leather straps used to attach the armored plates to the Backbreaker and slapping new layers of iron on it with a few rivets when necessary.
- A Goblin And His Dog – Worth mentioning is Narzul's achievement in effectively taming and befriending an ogre, a creature generally deemed too stupid to understand anything. He has taught Gahrul several commands like go, stay, attack, eat, stop and run, which the ogre obeys with unquestioning loyalty. The duality of their partnership also means that they are useless as individuals. Narzul is far too small and weak to be a part of an orcish fighting force and Gahrul is a directionless ogre without Narzul's commands, as he doesn't listen to anyone else. The two are inseperable for that reason.

- Most notable is Gahrul's tower shield. It's made of three inches of solid iron and it covers Gahrul's entire frame when held in front of him. It once functioned as one of the great doors that barricaded the entrance to the underground Gobhold. After their escape and improvised use of the door as a shield, Narzul attached straps and buckles to it (like a real shield) so Gahrul could wield it with one arm. It's so big that Gahrul can't see where he's going when he hoists it up, leaving Narzul responsible for directing him.
- The ogre's makeshift armor supplements the formidable protection afforded to him by the tower shield. It exists of several seperate iron plates, bent to fit the shape of Gahrul's limbs and torso, that are attached to him with straps, hooks and buckles in preparation for a fight. The exception to this rule is his full-face helmet; it simply rests on his head. Unfortunately, there is no time to put it on in case of an ambush or fast mobilization.
- Narzul's shortbow is another important part of equipment. It's made from the flexible, hollow and deceptively strong bones of a flightless bird species that the goblins of Gobhold preyed on for their tasty meat and decorative feathers. Its draw weight is still much less than a proper human or orcish longbow but Narzul makes effective use of it by combining a fast rate of fire with rapid target acquisition to take out close-range targets. It comes with a large quiver, slung across Narzul's back, that holds more than thirty arrows. He can afford to carry so many of them with him since there's no need to walk anywhere when he rides Gahrul.
- He also carries a small dagger on his person for last-ditch personal defense efforts but Narzul avoids having to use it at all costs.

Narzul is the unwanted bastard child of a raping orcish reaver and an unfortunate goblin victim. What the orc was thinking when it took and impregnated a globin female is anyone's guess, but Narzul assumes alcohol was involved. He was born in Gobhold, a system of underground caverns between the dwarven territory of Darazum and the human kingdom of Ceril. Gobhold was inhabited by manifold different tribes of goblins that constantly warred for supremacy over the best hunting caves and richest ore veins. Narzul always felt trapped underground in those infernal caves, probably the orcish blood in him yearning for freedom, and he spent most of his time above ground, roaming the mountains and hillsides. He was always an outcast in goblin society as goblins generally fear the brutality of orcs (and with good reason), and while he initially believed nothing of value was lost, being a permanent pariah wore him down eventually. He wanted to prove that his existence was a net benefit to his tribe.

While out hiking in the mountains, Narzul observed a hunting party of humans accompanied by hounds and was inspired by the symbiotic relationship between master and pet. In typical goblin fashion, this idea was immediately blown massively out of proportion and he decided he wanted to tame one of the mountain ogres he'd seen. Big, strong creatures, but generally docile, more akin to bovines than trolls in their temperament. Finally enthusiastic about something, Narzul introduced this idea to his tribe – their very own ogre! That would be a huge asset in the inter-tribal wars, he argued, and the goblins couldn't deny Narzul's logic. A hunting party of dozens of goblins was assembled and Narzul led them above ground during a nightly raid and they stole away an infant ogre from its sleeping mother.

For the next few years, Narzul raised the rapidly-developing ogre in the same way a human mother might raise a very, very slow child. He named him Gahrul, goblin for 'big one', inspired by his own derogatory name which meant 'nasty one', given to him by his mother out of spite for the orc that raped her. Gahrul took to the training slowly and it took a long time for real trust to develop between the two creatures. Gahrul, being so big, often had to be forcefully restrained by dozens of goblins during fits of uncooperative behavior. Regardless, an unlikely partnership was formed. The goblin smiths forged Gahrul's crude armor, clad him in it and marched him on their enemies with Narzul on his shoulders. Weapons weren't necessary against the tiny goblins and Gahrul was able to punch and kick his way through the opposition with ease.

It was then that one of the lords of the kingdom of Ceril (who, exactly, Narzul will probably never know) came upon the underground goblin territory in a bid to expand his duchy's mining operations. The decision to have the goblins flushed out was an easy one to make.

Even with Gahrul on their side, the splintered goblin tribes were no match for the human soldiers that marched into their caves. Narzul and Gahrul fled, taking one of Gobhold's great iron doors with them to shield against the rain of arrows (another shining moment of creativity, courtesy of Narzul). The pair ranged deep into the kingdom of Ceril, trying to avoid trouble but being hounded by xenophobic guards and town militias all the way. Narzul, tired of running, eventually ordered Gahrul to turn on a pursuing group of human hunters. Together, they killed them all, snapping something within Narzul that was previously unbent and unleashing the orcish bloodlust that had been hiding in his DNA his whole life. He was never the same afterwards.

Their saviors turned out to be Nar Mat Kordh-Ishi, much to Narzul's chagrin. He had been raised with the belief that orcs were monstrous creatures his entire life, but Radush Eye-Drinker was the only one who would take them in. He was amused and somewhat impressed by the half-goblin's mastery over the ogre and the orc warlord immediately recognized the usefulness of a living siege engine. Besides, at that point, Narzul's hatred for humans eclipsed his abstract fear of orcs.

That said, Narzul's time in the Pikes with Gahrul was one of the worst times in his life. Where the goblins had admired Narzul for his success with taming and befriending Gahrul, most of the orcs of the Company had nothing but disdain for the weak half-goblin who had all of his fighting done for him. They could appreciate Gahrul, of course, but the intellectual leap that was necessary to subsequently respect Narzul was well was only made by part of the leadership echelon and various clever specialists. This instilled a deep-seated sense of insecurity and impotence in Narzul, who has desperately been trying to repair his image ever since. Gahrul, of course, was unperturbed in the face of total, oblivious ignorance.

The combat effectiveness of the Fletchrat (a more-or-less derogatory title earned by virtue of being a good archer and by sin of being an insufferable half-goblin) and the Backbreaker (a very admirable title entirely attributable to Gahrul's great strength) could not be denied by anyone, though, and the two moved out of the Pikes in a mercifully short time. They were much better deployed as a specialist of the Chosen, specifically to tackle heavily-fortified positions, thick concentrations of enemy infantry and to provide a mobile shield for some of the more pragmatic Spikes to take cover behind. Narzul has dedicated Gahrul and himself to that role with boundless, almost panicky enthousiasm, hoping that the orcs of Nar Mat Kordh-Ishi might be able to respect him for sheer fearless- and recklessness.

Only time will tell if that works or if gets them both killed.

Of the two, Narzul has by far the most personality. He is an unpredictable, wild sort, constantly torn between the awakened bloodlust and savagery of his orc heritage and the clever, maniacal glee and cunning of his mother's side. He is both proud and insecure, confident and impotent, fearless and self-preserving. Narzul has no strong feelings about dwarves or knife-ears, but his hate of bunnies still burns strong and is half of what fuels his bloodthirst in battles against humans. The other half is a sad and pathetic desire to prove himself worthy among a Company that almost universally looks down on him just for what he is, with total disregard for what he has accomplished. His brains are the only tool he has to achieve this and yet that is exactly what the average orc does not respect. This aspect of him expresses himself in various forms of pettiness as well. Narzul loses his temper very quickly and holds grudges for a long time; he has probably wanted to kill at least half of the Company at one point or another. The only things that keep him mostly sane are his bond with Gahrul and the friendships (or, at the very least, amicable working relationships) he enjoys with a select few specialists from the Chosen, whom he calls the 'clever ones'.

Gahrul is dumb as a bag of rocks. He understands most simple words and follows Narzul's orders very well, but he has roughly the intelligence of a two-year-old human child. He more than makes up for this with an inherently fearless nature – not because ogres are ferocious killers, mind you, but because they have no natural predators and fear has evolved out of their emotional range thousands of years ago. He likes food a lot. Any kind, really, as ogres are omnivores with an iron consitution that will eat and digest almost literally anything. Gahrul's other vice is, surprisingly, positive reinforcement. Much like dogs, Gahrul thrives on being told, in no uncertain terms, that he is doing a good job and is definitely a really swell guy. Narzul abuses this constantly and it would have been impossible to train the ogre without this particular trait. It's possible for Narzul to get Gahrul to do almost anything with enough encouragement – combat is a big one, as Gahrul doesn't really derive any inherent joy out of a good scrap. The satisfaction of a job well done is paramount.

- Please list with most potent skills first.
- The skill that Sparla has cultivated above all others is what earned her recognition: magic. Not the variety of the tree-sculpting knife-ears, or wrinkled humans in towers, but something far more raw and visceral. Hers is the magic of blood and grime, of steel and mud. Sparla can grant or sap strength, summon noxious fumes, call sight-obscuring darkness, and throw around some fire—making fire being to magic as the burbling sounds of a baby are to speech. Beyond fire, Sparla’s magic almost universally requires material components, which are used up in their casting—things like plants, beast fur, and so on. Large scale workings, those with great tactical significance, are also within her capabilities, but they require more time and resources than are practical in pitched battle, where she’d have to confine her magic to a much smaller, more interpersonal scale. Efforts in enchantment have revealed that her magic can only alter organic matter—killing any living organic matter—and even then is a laborious process.
-She can brew a mean bear. There’s no real utility to this, but she knows how to brew alcohol and is pretty good at it.
(I think magic is broad enough that she doesn’t need any other major skills.)

-Sparla avoids standard metal armor, which would restrict any somatic component to a spell. She instead chooses thick and durable leather, which can stand up to small blades and any reasonably small fire. A large number of red feathers have been affixed to her right bracer, shoulders, main body, and over every part of her helm.
-The feathers attached to Sparla’s armor, being organic, were ideal for enchantment. There is no longer any risk of their decay, and are as strong as iron. Experiments with armor that had more feathers proved to be just as cumbersome as, if not more so than, regular armor, but it has been included to provide extra protection to Sparla’s vital areas.
-Amidst leather and feathers, Sparla has attached pouches and vials of various substances to her armor so as to facilitate the use of magic in combat.
-Sparla always carries a knife for use when magic impractical, unnecessary, or impossible. Also for cutting herself, when she needs to use blood to fuel her magic (something she usually tries to avoid, but sometimes things are necessary).

Sparla’s parents were were of mixed stock, as unknowable a mixture of orc and humans she. The origin of this was quite simple: Sparla, and her parents, were not born, but bred. They came from no tribe, but a slave fighting arena. This was not technically legal, and is something that not many humans—in spite of their general feelings about orcs—would have been comfortable with, but there was enough money flowing to the right people that legality never became an issue. Sparla doesn’t know how high up the chain of command went—whether it stopped with some local Baron, straight up to the throne itself, or anywhere in between—but she has made it her personal mission to see anyone and everyone involved dead.

Sparla never knew her parents. She was separated from them, and they likely died in the arena before she learned to speak. Of course, one cannot miss what one never knew, so she does not miss them, and there were others to fill the void. Principally, the arena’s most prominent—and largest—combatant, a colossal, full-blooded orc, born in freedom, by the name of Magog. Magog was not especially kind, nor gentle, but he took it upon himself to raise her all the same. It was, despite the circumstances, fairly ordinary as orcish childhoods went, with the only notable difference being that she killed other children with greater regularity than she might have if she were born free—and even that was not especially cumbersome, because she was taught by one of the arena’s greatest fighters.

Then it came to light that she had a natural aptitude for magic.

This changed things in a number of ways. Magog realized that, while he could turn her into a truly fearsome fighter of great skill, it would be hindered by her natural build. He also realized that her magic would have no limitation. He did not know magic himself, but he encouraged Sparla to pursue her talents. Being the simplest form of magic, it didn’t take long for her to discover how to call fire; by mixing her blood with the open air, Sparla could easily initiate conflagration.

Controlling that fire was a different story. A fire started that she could not readily put out, and it came to the attention of the arena authorities that one of their slaves was a magic user. Fortunately for Sparla, their greed overcame their good sense. They called in a mage—an elf by the name of Therelon—who had bet and lost on far too many fights, and promised that they would absolve his debt with them, and pay off his debt with others, if he taught Sparla magic.

Being a knife-ear, he was an insufferable ponce, but Sparla could not deny his skill. The training was hard, and he was cruel, but he could not deny her talent for long. Together, begrudgingly, they worked out exactly what sort of magic she was skilled in. Over time, also begrudgingly, and very slowly, they developed something resembling respect for one another. Beyond that, a few years passed without incident, and Sparla grew strong in her magic.

But one day, Therelon told Sparla that the arena told him they meant to have her fight Magog. He told her not to be there, and he understood; she did not want another powerful magic user to deal with.

When the day came, she told the arena managers that she needed more fuel for her spells, to create make them more powerful, and cause a bigger spectacle. They believed her, and acquiesced. She entered the arena, Magog opposite her, with some human shouting at the audience, hyping up the crowd, almost all of whom held some sort of betting ticket. Magog lumbered towards her, and she made ready. When he reached her, he raised is axe high. And then he passed her. She unleashed her magic; a cloud of biting, acidic gas flowed into the audience.

Then the screaming started.

Magog charged into the passageway behind Sparla, through which she had entered the arena, and tore the grate covering it right off as he continued on. Little did the owners and proprieters of the arena know, some of the extra materials she had requested had gone towards enhancing Magog’s already great strength tremendously. Behind the scenes, he tore through guards and ripped chains from walls, raising the slaves to arms. In the arena, blasts of fire and poison from Sparla had seen the arena’s patrons, and those administrators who came to see the fight, dead. And the arena was on fire.

She followed where Magog had gone, and as one, the orcs and partial-orcs tore through all that stood in their way. Quite a few died—both to their desperate enemies and a wayward spell—but they were undeterred. By the time they made it out, the arena was completely engulfed in flames. That’s when they ran into the city guard. They were far more numerous than the foes they had faced in the bowels of the arena, and far more competent. Still, they were not enough to stop the horde of former slaves from blazing as trail out of the city. Before long, they were in the wilds, and they were free.

And they weren’t quite sure what to do with their freedom. Some formed a band of marauders, to kill and steal from the humans of the land. Some went off to try and find a tribe to join. Sparla and Magog, as well as several other former slaves, went off to forge their own destiny. It didn’t go over so well, especially with the news of the violent slave rebellion that butchered guardsmen and civilians alike, and burned down a fifth of the city they had been in. They were rebuffed at every turn, but eventually, they heard of something curious: an orc-only mercenary company. And they set off to join Nar Mat Kordh-Ishi.

It wasn’t particularly difficult to find the mercenary company, nor to join. Sparla started in the pikes, just like everyone else, but her commander was surprised to find her already quite disciplined—Therelon was not the sort of teacher to suffer rebellion. Combined with her capability with magic, this got her transferred out of the pikes quicker than most. Being one of relatively few magic users in the company, Sparla was a valued asset, but for a long time she was not seen as experienced enough to join the Chosen. Thus, she was long in a state of limbo, where she had many of the priveleges that came with being one of the company’s elite, but none of the rank and respect. Magog, being older than she, and more experienced, found his way intio the Chosen quite readily, after his also-short time on the pikes.

But time passed, and Sparla saw battle after battle, and, with Magog’s aggressively vocal support, she found her way into the Chosen. For three years, it was thus, and she and Magog went into battle together, and they claimed victory, or inflicted Pyrrhic victory on their enemies. One day, they charged into battle, ran into an enemy mage. While it wasn’t particularly common for them to run into other mages on the battlefield, it happened enough that there was a plan for it—namely, that Sparla would take care of them. They were powerful, far stronger than most of the one she was used to—he could create barriers to block her direct attacks, and had enough guile to contend with her trickery—but in the end, she was victorious. Magog did not make out so well.
He had been surrounded by twenty enemy combatants, and while none of them survived their encounter with him, he was wounded gravely. Sparla used her fire to cauterize his wounds, but it was not enough. He died on the field of battle.

Sparla was absent for much of the rest of the battle, but she was there at its end. Having claimed a high point from the enemy, she rained death on them. It consumed all the components that she had brought into battle, and enough of her own blood that she had begun to feel faint, but it opened a massive hole in the opponent’s line, and the Nar Mat Kordh-Ishi exploited it. The day was won, and Magog avenged.

She grieved for him, and those in the company that knew him honored his memory. But they all lived on, and they all kept fighting. Sparla has since made her peace with Magog’s death, and has risen to be one of the most prominent of the Chosen. Her title does not refer to any act in particular—she is a witch, and her fury is as terrible as any beast lurking in the shadow of night.

It would be wrong to say that Sparla has no capacity for kindness. Rather, she has little motivation for it. Sure, she shows respect where it is due, and deference to her superiors, but she treats the majority of those she meets rather distantly. After all, if you’re going to be forced to fight to the death with someone, why bother with making friends with them? After escaping the arena, it was something that was ingrained into her, and while she acknowledges that the practical need for this reaction, she hasn’t worked to change it.

That isn’t to say she can’t be amicable, of course. If she’s in a good mood, she smiles, and acts polite, and all the pleasantries, but there’s always an edge to it. She knows how powerful she is, and she knows that has earned her respect, and she always looks like she’s one second away from turning the person she’s talking to into a newt (she can’t actually do that, even when she wants to, but that didn’t stop the rumors). She was more conventionally amicable with Magog, but that ended when he died.

And of course, she was arrogant. It’s to be expected, since she was taught magic by a knife-ear. She didn’t pick up any of Therelon’s habits, or anything like that, but there’s always a sense of smugness about her when she isn’t in battle.

She doesn’t stay with the Company out of any particular motivation. It would just be a worse decision for her to leave than to stay.

Everyone in the company knows about Sparla, and quite a few important people respect her, and her fellow Chosen are far more familiar with her than most of the company.

- Hideously strong, even for an Orc.
- Wields a greatsword with tremendous skill.
- Expert warg rider.
- Experienced in ambushes, hit and run tactics, and other forms of guerilla warfare.
- An utterly tenacious bastard.

- Ishnwymr (Dragon's Death): Morgan's "greatsword," which in reality is more like a massive hunk of iron beaten into the general shape of a sword. Gained its name after Morgan heroically saved his company by slaying a dragon in single combat (read: killed an alligator while he was drunk).
- Armor: Morgan is one of the few among his company to wear a full suit of plate armor, patchwork though it may be. The entire suit is painted matte black (save for his right gauntlet, painted the company's signature red) with no further adornment, and is the origin of Morgan's epitet.
- Tomahawks: Somewhere between utility and weapons, Morgan carries about a half-dozen small, light axes balanced for throwing. When the quarters are too close for him to swing his sword, he'll take one in each hand, or they can be chucked at enemies as last-ditch weapons.
- Gasrikka: Morgan's warg mount, a massive beast with black fur and yellow eyes. Her name means "frequent biter," and is also an Orcish vulgarity meaning "an unpleasant woman."

Like many in the Nar Mat Kordh-Ishi, Morgan has no rightful claim to any Orcish tribe or clan. Like fewer, though, he was not raised by Orcs, and never knew his true-blooded parents. A human mercenary company, known as the Black Raiders, had come across the aftermath of a forest ambush in their travels. A small band of refugee Orcs had seemingly been tracked down and slaughtered by bandits for what little wealth they had. Mostly women and children, there had been no survivors, and there was practically nothing left by the bandits to pick over. Just as they started to leave the scene, the wailing of an infant could be heard. Nestled under the corpse of a Orc woman that had died protecting him, a baby Orc was found; cold, malnourished, and caked in mud and his mother's blood. The Raiders' leader, Donald "Donny" Black, thought nothing of it, but his favorite girl took a liking to the small, grey creature, as her own baby had been stillborn a month prior. Donny allowed her to keep the baby for herself, thinking that it would be dead before long and would cause him no further trouble.

Donald was unfortunately proven wrong, as the young Orc repeatedly proved to be utterly unwilling to die. Named Morgan by his adoptive mother, he clung to life voraciously throughout his first few years. His human mother died of dysentery when he was five years old, but Morgan still survived, and his care was left to Donny, who was embittered by the loss of his most treasured woman. Donny Black was not a man of restraint or great emotional temperament, and so frequently took out his frustrations on Morgan, usually in the form of vicious beatings. The Orc boy endured this silently; he knew that Donny thought he was worthless, but refused to prove him right by showing weakness. Even so, Donny refused to be burdened by the little monster that had been left to him. Morgan was given a sword, and Donny trained the boy himself. The training was harsh and brutal, leaving Morgan with many scars and bruises, but he continued to endure. This was his chance to prove his worth to his "father."

For years, Morgan served Black's Raiders as both an attendant to the soldiers, and as their whipping boy, serving Donny foremost in both. On some occasions, a soldier would offer up a few coins to Donny, and Morgan would be "theirs" for the night. When he was much younger, Morgan had a certain idea of what a warrior was like, mostly from stories his mother told him. As he grew up, it was clear to him that the Raiders were far from the shining knights of these childhood tales. A savage pack of criminals and scoundrels, the Raiders were scarcely better than a band of thieves or bandits. There was no job too dirty for them, and only the most desperate or unscrupulous of benefactors hired them. Before long, Morgan had joined his father and the other Raiders on the battlefield, one of Black's Raiders in his own right. A young Orc grows faster than a human, and is stronger as well. At first Morgan was given a short sword to fight with, but this was too light and flimsy for him. He eventually scavenged a claymore as long as he was tall, and swung it around with speed that unnerved the other Raiders.

Strong in body and trained by a veteran mercenary, Morgan was surprisingly mighty in battle, but he was still young and inexperienced. In a moment of laxity in combat, Morgan allowed an enemy soldier to strike from behind him. Donny, watching, leaped forward at took the blade meant for Morgan, perhaps merely out of reflex, perhaps out of a deep-buried protective instinct toward his adopted "son." Morgan carried Donny off the battlefield, alive, but at the cost of his sword arm. Resentment grew toward Morgan in the Raiders, seeing him as a bad omen that had killed his mother and crippled his father. This resentment spread to Donny, who in a drunken rage attacked Morgan in the dead of night. He swung wildly and furiously at Morgan, yelling about his secret desire for Morgan to have died in infancy, or died with his mother, or died on the battlefield, and his deep disappointment that he had lived through all of that. A rage overtook Morgan, who had previously been only defending against his father's blows, and struck him down.

Before the commotion could spread further in their camp, Morgan took off in the dead of night with only his sword and armor, and a stolen horse. In the years that followed, Morgan did all he could to survive. His only skill was to swing his greatsword around, and so he took work as a mercenary in the few companies that would hire an Orc. He was frequently cheated out of money, put into suicidal missions, or left for dead, but Morgan still refused to lay down and die. When work was scarce, he stole to live, usually holding up travelers and other bandits. To disguise the color of his skin at a distance, and keep him better hidden at night, Morgan painted his armor black. There may have been another, deeper reason, but Morgan did not like to think about it. Morgan's martial prowess grew as he matured, and he found that even a greatsword was too light a blade to make sufficient use of his strength. He found a smith to forge together several blades into a single, ugly mass, and then carried around this misshapen "sword" as equal parts blade, shield and bludgeon.

In a battle against the defending forces of Castle Picty, Morgan was thrust into single combat against a great warrior, the famous Red Knight of Picty. The living ideal of the shining knights Morgan dreamed of as a child, the Red Knight saw that he was just a boy, and gave him the chance to flee. Morgan was far past the point of fleeing, and drew his sword. Their duel lasted five strokes, as Morgan shattered the Red Knight's blade with his own. The final blow ripped Morgan's helmet off his head, but he caved in the Red Knight's skull. Warriors around this duel stopped fighting for a brief moment in awe, amazed that a young Orc in black armor had killed the great Red Knight. Such began the reputation of the Black Orc.

Fame alone did not keep Morgan's belly full. He was eventually driven to steal again, this time from what he thought to be a band of Orcish refugees. As he fled into the night after raiding one of their tents, he found that he was being pursued by what sounded like giant dogs. These had been no refugees; they were outriders of the Nar Mat Kordh-Ishi. Morgan could not outrun warg riders for long, and was eventually encircled. Determined to go down fighting, Morgan killed four mounted Orcs and took the arm off another one before being felled by a poisoned arrow. Removing his helmet to claim the head of a such a worthy foe, the outriders were shocked to find that he the Black Orc. They took him back to their camp to see if he would survive the poison, watching him curiously. After three days of agony, Morgan proved yet again that he was unwilling to die. Claiming that he owed them a debt in blood and food, Morgan was inducted into the Nar Mat Kordh-Ishi by the chief of the Warg Company.

Morgan did not spend long in the pikes, as he had been already trained to fight by humans, and the Warg Chief thought his skills were wasted among the recruits. Morgan earned a great deal of resentment from the other Orcs, partly from this blatant favoritism, partly for killing their comrades, but mostly because he was like a human among their ranks. He had never lived among Orcs, and he did not speak a lick of Orcish. When he joined the Warg Company, he was given the meanest bitch in the pack to be his mount, claiming that she was the only warg big enough to hold him and his heavy armor. Morgan steeled himself to prove his worth to his new comrades the only way he knew how: with blood and sweat. Morgan drilled with his warg for hours on end every day, determined to break the beast if it killed him. Hours not spent training with his warg or his blade were spent among his comrades, trying desperately to learn the language and heritage of his people. In time, his efforts paid off. He could speak Orcish reasonably (though with a hideous human accent), and after giving each other a dozen new scars, he had finally bonded with his warg (though she now answered to the vulgar "Gasrikka" instead of her normal name).

More used to fighting from horseback, Morgan took some time to adjust to fighting atop a warg, but he was already well-used to the ambush tactics used by the Warg Company. Despite their initial distrust and resentment of him, his fellow riders came to respect Morgan after several battles fought together. Even so, he remained something of a distant and unapproachable figure, his humanlike temperment unsettling to most of the tuskers. Even so, after only two years among the warg riders, Morgan was given leadership of his own warband. Morgan's own determination and mad courage kept them on the front lines, and volunteered them for the most dangerous tasks possible. This warband became known as "Morgan's Raiders," and was seen as a band of doomed riders by the rest of the Nar Mat Kordh-Ishi. They painted their armor black to emulate their leader, and took on roles other Orcs saw as being suicidal. It was not uncommon for Morgan to be the last survivor of these Raiders after a successful mission. Rumors continued to swirl around Morgan, thinking that perhaps some curse followed him, killing those around him but leaving him unable to die. Despite these rumors, Morgan's skill was unquestionable, leading to the disbandment of Morgan's Raiders and his induction into the Chosen.

Morgan seems to carry a sort of inferiority complex, which drives many of his feeling and decisions. Having known nothing but the scorn and derision of those around him for most of his life, he feels a constant, pressing need to prove his worth to those around him. This fuels both his rash, aggressive nature, and his unshakable tenacity. If presented with a challenge, he will complete it no matter the difficulty or personal cost. He lives for the acceptance of others, but at the same time is withdrawn and unused to close or affectionate relationships. To an observer he seems stoic and humorless, but he is just clueless as to how to appropriately react to most social scenarios. This difficulty is exacerbated further by having been raised by humans, and now living among Orcs. Most distressing to Morgan is his difficulty in forming bonds; he can recognize others as being his comrades, but still cannot bring himself to open up to them, fearing the same betrayal he suffered from his father.

I'll work on this when there are more characters if that's okay.

- Savage fury – A wise man once said "that's my secret, I'm always angry!" Indeed, this is the exact creed that Moxis lives by in his day-to-day dealings with anyone and everything. He does absolutely nothing to dispel the concept of the 'savage Orc', doing much more to inflate such notions than anything else. While able to retain control of himself when/if needed, it is not in his nature, his upbringing or his person to be calm when he could be angry. On the other hand, like any wild beast, it is precisely this that can be harnessed in battle and then unleashed upon a rather unfortunate enemy - like a seething mass of lava constantly bubbling inside a volcano, it is always there and when it erupts forth...well...you'd best not be in the way.

- Animal instincts - Moxis is more of an animal than a person, though he may think, speak, learn and live in the flesh of something more bipedal and seemingly Orc-like than any four-legged variation. Whether it comes to his snap reactions, eerily precise reflexes, or his ability to heightened sense of smell, he seems to have been crafted for his role within the
Nar Mat Kordh-Ishi.

- Guerilla fighter – From the moment he learnt to stand and walk he has been encouraged to do two things, to fight and to become the finest fighter he can become in rough and irregular terrain. Living with his people amidst the craggy mountains and rugged plains of his homeland, he has become near enough an expert in fighting where others would not even consider fighting, launching ambushes from the most unexpected of places, and coming upon an enemy from a quarter they would never expect. Sun, rain or snow...rock, woodland or plains...its all the same to Moxis.

- Light Infantry specialist – Moxis and his people could arguably have been said to have 'invented' the way of fighting now widely employed by various nations and peoples the world over, fighting almost exclusively in loose formations, hitting the enemy before retreating, and attacking from a distance...at least until they run out of projectiles. Having inherited these same skills, and having lead raids himself, he considers himself somewhat of an authority on the use of light infantry, on the conducting of raids (especially night time raids) and on combining 'cavalry' with infantry support.

- Close quarters combatant – When your javelins are all gone, and when their is only one way left, then you can expect Moxis to be there! His culture includes customs of head-taking and the use of their national weapon (see below) to deal death and mayhem to their foes. He is no exception to this fiercely
enforced rule.

- Javelineer – As handy with his javelins as he is with his blade, he can hit even a moving target from a great distance.

- Runner – Moxis is fast, much faster than most would guess upon first seeing him, capable of keeping pace with a running warg or delivering messages back and forth in a matter of moments. Often times he has gambled with those that underestimated him, coming away with they somewhat relieved of their coin and he not a little richer for it.

- Drunkard and Dancer – There are very few times when Moxis is not inebriated, which does nothing to help his anger issues, coming from a breed of Orcs that drink hard all the time and particularly so before battle. If a close fellow dies, they drink. If they are to raid an enemy tribe, they drink. Going on a long journey? They drink. No, it is easier to say how many times he has been seen without a drink in his hand, and there are mighty few of those! Going hand-in-hand with such behaviour is the custom of dances, especially war dances, in the tribes of his nation. When the drink takes him he usually cannot resist the urge to leap up, cry a war-cry and begin an enthusiastic dance of his people.

- Tattooist – Some people want decoration more personal than mere ornaments, and Moxis happens to be able to provide that, versed in a number of different styles of marking the flesh through puncturing, pricking, chiselling and other methods. Apart from a skin of alcohol and his weapons, the only thing he carries on his person his pouch containing his 'tools of the trade'.

- A black knee length and sleeveless tunic of wool, tied at the waist by a sturdy belt with two wolf heads acting as belt buckles, the hems of the garment patterned with geometric motifs in white. Over this he wears a red thigh length and hand-made cloak of heavy material (due to living in the mountains), the zig-zag and castellated designs of white upon it representative of his tribe and region of origin, the entire thing able to be wrapped about the body or the top half hung over his shoulder like a collar of sorts, it can also be thrown over the shoulder for ease of movement or wrapped about the arm to act as a form of impromptu shield.

Upon his head he usually wears a simple helmet of bronze, well made and with a nose guard, with protection about the neck and pieces covering both cheeks of his face, everythingfinished off by a flowing red crest of black running from front to back.

Finally, covering his feet and part of the lower leg, are a pair of sturdy boots without soles or heels crafted from the pliant flesh of a fawn, these are encased in a pair of bronze greaves tied at the back of the calve.

- Javelins, at least three of them; each of these are tipped with iron and crafted from sturdy wood, able to be used as short spears when needed, and easily crafted again from natural materials if lost or unable to be recovered.

- Shield; usually with the javelins held behind this in one hand, the shield is an oval construct of wood covered by leather and painted brown, a central wooden spine running down the middle, and an iron boss both for protection and as a punching weapon.

- Curved short sword; a foot-and-a-half long weapon of iron, gently curved with the cutting edge on the inside of the blade and a thick spine, kept wickedly sharp at all times and worn on the hip beneath his cloak.

- A length of rope usually worn about his torso, because you never know when you might need some good rope.

Toward the north of the human Kingdom of Kedril, the northernmost nation of a peninsula and the closest to it, lie the lands of Ekaht - a vast and sprawling land inhabited by constantly warring tribes of Orcs, savage and ferocious fighters stuck in an age of heroic combat, warriors without mercy or empathy for anyone except themselves and their kinfolk - and in the north or this northerly land can be found the Amnytan mountain range (named by humans, but known to the Orcs as Urgort).

It is in this place of towering peaks, lush and fertile valleys, and hundreds of Orcish villages and fortified hilltop settlements that the 'bravest of the brave' can be found practicing their traditional way of life; herding livestock, raiding their neighbours, and hiring themselves out as mercenaries to the southern kingdoms, fiefs and nations who lack their own effective guerilla fighters.

Moxis was born into the Krobdisci tribe, one of thousands of tribes vying for the title of 'greatest Orcish warriors' of their nation, a tribe known among equally savage peoples for their love of drink, war and woman which they took to the extremes at any and every opportunity. In this society you became a fully fledged member once you had taken the head of your first enemy, trained nearly from birth to throw javelin, endure hardship and pain without complaint, and to effectively use the traditionally curved blades of the Ekaht region. It was also highly advisable to gain every ounce of knowledge you could from the constantly cominig-and-going members of the tribe that served with great regularity in the armies of others, returning with tales, trophies and theories of their own on how best to best them should they ever need to decimate a former ally.

Not the son of a great noble, or even a great warrior, Moxis grew up as the child of a mercenary father who was not really ever there - too busy fighting other peoples wars and winning glory for himself - and a mother who tended to the families flock of sheep and goats on the mountainsides. Although he grew lean and hard helping his mother in the mountains, often climbing where he was not supposed to, or hunting when he could, he did not neglect what was essentially the only occupation he desired in his future.

By the time he was seventeen his father was dead, spitted upon the pike of some human in some land somewhere, but the young Orc could not really care less. When his fathers arms and armour were returned to the family, the first thing he did was make sure they were undamaged, go to have his sword sharpened, and declared to his mother that he was going to be a warrior...the greatest warrior that the tribe had ever seen, no less! Some laughed at him, but they mostly stopped laughing after he gutted them and took their heads from their shoulders, quickly gaining the attention of the tribes elders and being placed into one of the small 'flocks' of Orcs as they called their raiding parties.

Years passed and by the time Moxis had gained enough experience to lead his own flock into the southern lands he was hardened and practised, well versed in the Krobdisci way of war, but not as well as he thought...

It is typical that something foul would befall him when he had finally reached his desired position of power, a rival tribe (the rival tribe!) Discovering his bands route of march and their eventual location and planning nothing but ill for them before they even reached their destination. The planning paid off. Moxis and his Orcs were ambushed in a dense forest, slaughtered 'to a man', that Orc being Moxis himself, who fled back home to find his village already burnt to the ground and his people scattered to the four winds; with no-one left and nothing to now go back to, he decided to at least keep his traditions and thereby his people alive.

Raids, battles and war came and went like the seasons, Moxis seeing that everywhere he went he was despised - a single Orc by himself in a world that hated him for his race alone - even though he fought and killed in the name and cause of others without a second thought. It was on one of his many drunken sprees that he fell in with some of the Nar Mat Kordh-Ishi enjoying themselves in a similar fashion, an apparently organised company of Orcs...the company of Orcs, outcasts and lowlifes like himself no less.

Well, that was when his current life truly began, the headstrong Orc thrown without much questioning into the ranks of the Pikes with the other Tuskers. It was not what he had imagined, not by a long shot, and although he quickly tired of the orders, the dense formations and the constant wearing of armour he found far too heavy, he stuck at it because he was too big-headed to give in.

When he had finally 'graduated' from the Pikes, hating every moment of it with a passion and causing too many fights for his own good, he had nevertheless been noted for his unusual habits and odd ideas about hit-and-run fighting...something he had seen that the Orcs of Nar Mat Kordh-Ishi appeared not to employ in any number or to any great effect. Here, he thought to himself, here was something he could attempt to show his fellows! He understood that it was not the way of most Orcs, many who preferred to get to grips with the enemy as soon as possible, but in him through his people was a mingling of skirmisher and close quarter combatant that might satisfy them all.

After six years with the Company, only time will tell.

Moxis will always be a 'tribal Orc' at heart, it is a part of him and through it he is connected to his people, his ancestors and the entire culture that he has lost. Although a member of the Company as much as any other, he remains somewhat of a loner within the ranks, a figure of queer dress, with odd customs, and an Orcish dialect that may as well be another language entirely. For him is not the clash of closed ranks upon others, the way that humans or Elves fight, in both his mind and the way he conducts himself outwardly he is still stuck in an earlier 'heroic age', an age of long past where one-on-one combat was the norm, where you fought to take the heads of your enemies and where you worshipped your Gods by the amount of blood you spilt upon the ground.

Everything about him sceams 'savage archtype' - from the way he bawls at others, to his drinking habits, and the way he is not above bullying others or threatening them to get what he wants, kept in the Company only through his ferocity and odd ideas that may well have some merit. If others get in his way he is not above hurting them, or waiting with a strange patience to seek his vengeance on those that have wronged him in the past. Other than this he is quite a jovial chap, always angry beneath the surface but jovial nonetheless, willing to call others friend if they can appeal to his sense of honour and bravery as well as match him in a drinking bout.

Some might wonder how he got the moniker 'the Animal', and this is because of a couple of reasons beyond his eerily accute senses; the first is that you never back him into a corner or come up behind him unannounced, this can only end badly. The second is that he is not above, and has on occasion, eaten the flesh of enemies and allies alike when the whim took him.

Savage and uncivilised, born beyond the borders of such a soft and petty concept, he may be arrogant, cocksure and violent among a violent race, but he is still loyal to a fault, deeply connected to his past and his beliefs, and those that he now calls his family.

To be discussed.

- Mounted Combat - While no beastmaster, Felgratz's ability to not only ride wargs but also fight on them is something amazing, having distingushed amongst the company's Warg Riders. While on warg-back, Felgratz prefers to use the halberd purely due to personal preferance as well as a lack of proper lances in the company's armory but does change to his sword as needed.
- Shield Combat - Both a Warg Rider and a wannabe knight, Felgratz has gotten over the normal distain for sheilds that most orcs have. Even more surprisingly the Green Knight has proven his abiltiy to block and counter enemies with sheild techniques more commonly found amongst humans and elves.
- Tailoring - One of the skills he picked up growing up, having to make his own clothes as none of the villagers he lived with could produce suitable clothing for him on a regular basis, at least to start with.
- Paitence - Perhaps the strangest trait in Felgratz's resume, he knows how to paitencely wait for something or someone as well as humility to a greater degree than most Tuskers. While some orcs call such behavoir "cowardly" or "unorc-like", there is value in being able to deal with humans in manners that don't involve yelling and punching.
- Language Skills - After many hours spent with wisemen and reading picture books, Felgratz has a good handle on most of the human languages. While he won't be composing any spectacular epics or peoms for courts any time soon, he knows enough to properly live amongst humans and talk to them.
- Wine Tasting - Born with a sensitive tongue to such things, Felgratz occasionally indulges himself in the finer things in life.

- Orcish "plate armor" consisting of crude metal hammered into something roughly reminiscent of a knight's plate armor; Felgratz tries his best to make it look more like a "shinning suit of armor" thought various means and methods but it seems like orcish metal simply does not have the same luster of that of other races. He also wears a hand stitched tabard made of pelts and hides, dyed in red as well as a giant red cape given to him by the people of Kharthsbridge.
- A halberd that's more like a lance with two axe blades sticking out of either side
- A war hammer with an axe blade on it
- A human great sword, meant to be used with two hands but easily used in one by the likes of Felgratz to be used in cermeony and "honorable" duels only.
- A simple but thick heater shield painted in red and white with a the company's heraldry chained to the middle.
- "Gullyhat", Felgratz's loyal warg.

Felgratz knows little of what a true orcish upbringing is like as he was found in a wicker cradle, floating down the River Kharth as a baby, his mother probably placing him there to protect him from some unknown threat. The orcish baby had been found by a group of peasants who were having a picnic along the river banks. Upon finding the orc baby, they disputed over what to do, some said that they should bring it home, other said that they should throw it back into the river or kill it on the spot. In the end, it was decided to let the local noble and elders decide on what to do.

Bringing the child back to the center, a council was adjoined on the matter of what to do with the child. Eventually it was decided that a half orc woman who recently moved into the village would take guardianship of the child along with her scribe husband. The woman was called Uirth and her husband one Mathais Bayleth, the two decided to name the child after Uirth's own full orc father, Felgratz. Although something of an unruly child, the two managed to raise a happy, healthy little orc baby from baby into child.

Of course there was suspicion amongst the populace on the matter of the nature of an orc. Some feared that the child would grow up a savage and slaughter them all. The Bayleths and the elders did their best to reassure the people that no such thing would happen, but some were not convinced and continued to treat the young Felgratz poorly. Being an orc, Felgratz had a tough hide, literally and metaphorically; such insults would do little on him. He'd continue about his day until night time where his parents would tell him tales of brave, heroic knights and stories of grand adventures undertaken by couragous men. This would leave a profound impact on his life. Felgratz would convinced that he would become a knight, his orc blood wanting him to be a fighter while his human upbringing wanting him to be noble.

His first chance of this would occur when he was 14 and out splitting wood for the winter to come. A large group of bandits had decided to attack the lonely village, easily overpowering the local militia. The alliance of at least a dozen small groups had besieged the village that was too far to ask for help, and they thought they have hit it rich by attacking and undefended little place in the middle of no where. Unfortunately they didn't count on an orc being in the mix.

Donning his mother's old armor and picking up his father's axe and hammer, Felgratz barreled into the the bandits as they were making their way though town, looting all they came across. Using pure surprise to advantage, Felgratz killed a hand full of them, bigger and stronger than even the burliest of the bandits. When the looters reformed to try a head on assault, a clever flanking maneuver by Felgratz lead him to the path of a oxen which he used as a glorious mount to charge into the unprotected rear of the bandits. Needless to say, they didn't come back for a long time after that.

Felgratz was celebrated as a locate hero, what ever prejudices people held against him began to fade. As the years went on, the orc had become the guardian of the village in a way, even being dubbed the "Knight of Kharthsbridge". But soon he began to grow restless, his orcish blood telling him to go and seek more battles and fights. It would be around this time at one normal dinner that Felgratz's mother would bring up the name of Nar Mat Kordh-Ishi, a mercenary company which her father had some connection to in the way of a family friend. Excited at the prospect, Felgratz wanted to go an join but his family refused. There was much heated arguement and even an incident which lead to a new hole being made in the side of the family home curtosy of Felgratz but eventually his parents caved and let him go.

The villagers gathered to see their knight off as he was about the begin his journey. Right before turning his head towards the distant horizon, one of the nobles who had once refused the orcish baby citizenship into his land presented Felgratz a beautiful red cloak and a great two-handed sword, wishing him the best of fortunes in his adventures. Smiling once last time, Felgratz shed a single tear as he left the village which he had called home for so many years. It wasn't a proper orc tribe or stronghold, but to him it was home, and that's all that mattered.

It would take him a few months before he managed to catch up with the orc mercenaries, asking around in taverns and question travelers on the road but he eventually stumbled his was into one of Nar Mat Kordh-Ishi's encampments. He took to his training with an unseen enthusiasm, requiring little discipline as a pikeorc given that he wasn't nearly as aggressive and unchained as his comrades. Some thought that he was weaker than normal orcs since he didn't have a "right n proper orcish upbringing", but Felgratz proved that he was just as much an orc they were, keeping courageous and steadfast when the rest of his unit threatened the break and route.

After his time in the pikes, Felgratz became a Warg Rider and again took to it with great zeal seeing it as the closest thing he'd be to a proper knight. The beasts were not the friendliest of creatures to the orc but with time he learned how to properly ride and care for one of them. As the years passed on, he found that his armor became less and less adequate for his needs and decided to sell or trade in most of his collected loot in exchange for the closest thing to knightly plate armor that the company smiths could make.

Little over a year from getting his prized suit of armor, Felgratz had been promoted to a Chosen due to his heroic nature, his steadfast fighting and more importantly, his ability to empathize with humans.

An orc warrior with a human childhood, Felgratz is much less savage and aggressive compared to most orcs, preferring to be more reserved and patient. Of course there's still limits on how well an orc can do that but Felgratz likes to think he does it well, a probable root to his slight narcism streak. Whenever possible, Felgratz tries to act like either a reserved gentlemanly (gentleorcly?) mentor or a heroic knight with a lion heart. His love of doing good and preforming "knightly" acts is matched only by his love of battle and wine.

None

- Expert horseback rider
- Animal taming and empathy – Gussie grew up on a farm and is more at home atop a steed than anywhere else. She’s also had experience breaking in dogs and training wolves from pup age to guard the livestock and not eat them.
- Brawler & Blade Brander – Gussie grew up wrestling and pinning down pigs. And occasionally livestock. She’s been trained on the use of a sword but is undisciplined in the finer aspects.
- Noble customs – her mother had great plans in store for Gussie and ensured she was tutored in court intrigue and etiquette. She knows of all her father’s subjects and the history and bloodlines and it’s all a bore to her.
- Magical ability: plucking at heartstrings. Gussie has inherited her mother’s innate magic that allowed her to seduce her father. But she doesn’t have the years of experience and fine crafting her mother did. She has received some tutoring but is now uncomfortably plateauing when such abilities could be useful. She can consciously interrogate and push others to speak truths and cajole them magically, but her current prowess is akin to the same inhibition-free state men feel after a bottle of wine. Magic-sensitive sorcerers feel an aura that they can’t quite place about her but most don’t decipher her power unless she actively pushes someone. The aura itself seems to sway those who can sense it to convince themselves Gussie is just that charismatic.

- A tear-sized jewel strung on a gold chain she wears around her neck. It focuses her inborn magical manipulation of others around her and hones it to one wish her mother carved into the essence: Believe in Me. Gussie unknowingly manipulates those around her into twisting logic so that they align their goals with her own. The magical aura it radiates is shielded by her mother’s wards.
- Chainmail worn under black broiled leather armor.
- One bastard sword
- A dagger
- An assortment of pouches that are mostly empty.
- A snow-white fur cloak

She was never meant to be born!

That’s the first memory Gussie can remember that her father had said about her. Fiona Blue had brought her daughter to court to look her father in the eye and have her legitimized. She still remembers that first meeting. Her father had the deep emerald hues of house Orenth. Gussie’s mismatched set looked back and blinked. Then he balked and accused her mother, “She was never meant to be born!”

Her father and mother had a civilized argument about Gussie’s status. First, Stephen of Orenth offered to pay Gussie’s dowry and living expenses in exchange for her -quiet- departure from his life. Then he offered marriage to a respectable Arad vassal which would leave her illegitimate but well off. Towards the end he started to threaten mother. Gussie was never meant to be privy to this but her parents were terrible liars. They never did learn to lock their correspondence when they left her alone, either.

Fiona may well be descended from fishwives because, in the end, she bent then Prince Stephen of Orenth to recognize five-year-old Augusta as his legitimized heir before all his father’s vassals and the gods. After the introductions were all made Fiona spirited her daughter far away and had the capital in an uproar that never did settle.

She spent her interim years raising Gussie Blue in a quiet hamlet and had her play the part of farm girl. That was Fiona’s plan. It was Gussie’s childhood and she still considers herself more farm girl than anything. Her mother’s etiquette and magic lessons were a muted background to the sun and hard work and good ale. Even as her mother started to whisper about enemies and her future Gussie listened with all the attentiveness a teenager drunk on life can manage to their parent.

Her mother died of a common illness that sapped at her wits and then ate her from the inside out before she realized what had happened. She passed quietly in her sleep. If she had her memory when she died she would have laughed bitterly at the injustice of nature ruining her plans. Two months after her death and modest burial, Gussie was approached by an accountant executing her mother’s will. Her mother left a sizeable sum of gold, a letter to her daughter, and a ruby necklace— “family heirloom” she called it.

Gussie left the hamlet on horseback shortly after and found the news of her father’s death uninteresting. She was grooming horses for a band of minstrels going by “Beggars and Kings” when she heard that she had been married to Lord Arad’s youngest son. And that the minstrels she now worked for entertained and Augusta looked lovely with hair of gold and eyes of blue. Two weeks later she heard news that Augusta Laura Fiona Blue had renounced the throne and taken the vows with the Church of Issad and proclaimed that the other girl was an imposter. All this amused her to no end.

Then on a regular hot day, while performing for some minor lord in-between wars, the minstrel company of twenty or so musicians were rounded up. Augusta had been asked by the group to buy some fresh provisions and returned in time to see the inquisition from the gates of the castle. Turn by turn, each troubadour was asked about her. Not the fake ones running around proclaiming legitimacy—her. Tan and mismatched eyes and all. Turn by turn, each traveling companion she shared bread with feigned ignorance. Turn by turn, they were hanged.

Gussie road out from the young lord’s lands and into war-torn territory without realizing it. They wouldn’t stop using her name. The name was all they needed. The girl was a liability. She thought out her future that on that ride. It seemed to go on for as long as the road did. She could disappear. The world was big enough that she could vanish—even King’s daughters disappeared during war. But would she be safe? Could she live a life looking over her shoulder every day? The thoughts got her tangled and flustered right up until she ran into a Brenton loyalist advance scouting party. She was captured by them fully expecting to meet her death.

She was instead locked in an elegant room befitting her station as high-asset breeding stock: a vanity stocked with more powders and perfumes than a brothel, a monstrous bed adorned with silk sheets, carpets, intricate drapes, and enough pillows to support a town's population in heads. She sulked for half a day before the castle was besieged and her guard was doubled. The castle was taken before the sun set. She heard the slaughter of her guard detail--every sundering of plate, severing of limb, crushed skull, and every scream.

The door was busted down and a small assortment of cloaked men brandished bloody orcish blades. The girl shut her eyes. A great beast's bellowing roar drowned out the cursing and screaming of men. Gussie heard the same sounds that dispatched her guards and stood trembling waiting for her life to end. A sticky hot stream of blood splashed over her face and she inhaled the scent of copper and men emptying their bowels. Gussie opened her eyes and saw her room was now decorated with the dismembered cloaked corpses. The stink overwhelmed her--she could taste their flesh and the blood puddles that had begun to collect.

Gussie fell to the ground, threw up what was left in her stomach, and fell unconscious in orcish arms. It was around sunset that her captors had changed.

Gussie is more her father than she’ll ever know. His brash judgement and short temper were all passed down to her. This was tempered with her mother’s upbringing; patience and etiquette and paranoia were all instilled in her. To her dismay, she often hears her mother’s voice offering unwelcome judgement and counsel. What disturbs her is she sees reason in her mother's mistrust of anyone who wasn't her. Wearing the name Augusta has become a chore of breaking in a pair of new boots; painful, blistering, and constricting. Gussie finds her situation overwhelming whenever she stops to think about it. She focuses on the task and immediate mission at hand and decidedly ignores the throne on the horizon.

Augusta has a passing familiarization with the faces of nobility her father reigned over. She’s technically nobility and even royalty but seen as an outsider by most and, most positively, exotic by some.