"Don't get me wrong, lad, it's not that I hate every living, breathing thing. Not anymore. I've overcome that sense of hopelessness. Nay, as I walk this path with my own kin, I see a change stirring in me. These are my brothers, and we've become thicker than any orc steel can get. You've just gotta understand, I've lost everything I loved to the Dvergr the day I turned mature, and I lost it all again aboard a burning plank on the Verdant Gulf. It's not that I hate your life, or dwarven life, or human life, it's that I justly hate life." - Derthag to Radush, swapping philosophies in their old age.
"I've found if I don't kill a man on occasion, the inner green in me likes to jump out. You feed me sorry souls on the wrong end of my blades, and I'll provide you a company of orcs well learned. - Derthag to Radush, on having Derthag become a mentor and trainer as well as a warrior-capable mercenary.
Name: General Instructor/Commandant Derthag Ragihr "Tarlung, Halfling, Teach"
Age: 31 (As a sort of unexpected genetic flaw of sorts, the Half-Dwarf breeds in his tribe lived to about sixty.)
Appearance: Being the fourth generation(in Orcish years) of his kind born in Icerock, Derthag is rather pale, in fact, it'd be hard for the keenest of orcs to spot any verdant tint on him, save his exceptionally bright, colorfully green irises. Also being the byproduct of a Dvergr bloodline mixed into his family, he has a stunted growth not akin to orcs, as well as an exceptional amount of both body and facial hair. Standing roughly a little above 5'9, the majority of pure-bred orcs look down upon him. What is to be admired from other orcs, however, is his traditionally exotic and intricately braided goatee which extends about six inches from his chin, woven and held together by various golden rings and other jewelries. His hair is a darkened brown, and has grown to an exceptional length, tied together in a low ponytail stretching down his back.
His facial structure is rather different from most orcs, with thicker yet stout tusks, protruding to a lesser degree than usual. His chin and jaw are rather broad, extending outwards in a way usually seen in dwarves. Nonetheless, he still holds notable orcish features, the curvy noses, extended foreheads and protruding brow, and the rough and patchy skin. More often than nought, people will spot the orc in him above all else.
Skills and Abilities;-
Pathfinder/Cartographer, Derthag was born into a nomadic lifestyle, and beyond that had traveled an exceptionally vast distance from his home in Icerock, all the way to the Verdant Gulf. He has climbed notable mountain ranges, waded through several feet of snow, scanned many a horizon, and essentially has "been everywhere, man." Realistically, he could tell you roughly where an area is just by it's vague description. He is often sent out alone by the commander when venturing into unknown territory, or additionally asked to chart out a rough map of a location in order to give a more strategic approach to a situation. He has additionally picked up how to tell weather patterns, foreshadowing clues to what weather lies ahead, and can even help find his way via the constellations.
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Tear them asunder!, Raised among the hundreds of dwarven fortifications burrowed into the mountains of Icerock, Derthag grew up witnessing many of them fall. During a time of dwarven feudalism, families warred against families. It was in this time, that the nomadic orcs grew to understand a variety of besieging tactics. Lobbing grappling hooks over walls, using battering rams to soften the wall up, and pulling on the hooks to watch debris and dozens of dwarves go tumbling down the mountain. Ladders were seen with additional supports to keep them from being pushed over, and the angle and distance of catapults were studied. Additionally general "storm the keep!" tactics and units were seen by the tribe, and at times, also studied. With a good grip of fort-defense concepts, Derthag knows the weak points in walls, locations more heavily fortified than others, as well as a variety of approaches on how to bring those structured walls to a pile of rubble, and who exactly to send in to mop up the place inside.
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Axman, knowing how to use an ax comes in handy quite often. While the knowledge of how to cut up logs and sharpen them into spikes meant for oncoming cavalry, or perhaps how to construct a quick wooden palisade helps, so too does the art of battle with such a device. Studying the dwarves for nearly half his life has taught him these aspects, essentially the shield-busting capabilities as well as their fear-inspiring aspects in war. While using a morningstar as his main weapon, axes are his prioritized specialty.
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Instructor, teaching came naturally to Derthag, something he picked up from many wise, old captains he served on the seas. After proving his worth in the company, and even teaching Radush a few things when it came to the lay of the land and mapping out areas, he was put in charge of training a handful of orcs just fresh off pike-service, in order to find a good placement for them in the blades, and teaching both blades, warg riders and bowmen about the many different landscapes he'd traveled, survival and scouting techniques, and how to read maps. Quite a few orcs look up to him, whether it be for words of wisdom or to learn a few new moves or techniques. While not teaching as much as he used to, many orcs in the company still see him as their instructor. He has taken a serious role to being a mentor both on and off the field.
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Appear as the devil, and all ye' will submit. While it's no place of Derthag's to say whom is the most frightening orc of all, he certainly makes a show of it during battle. At times he will cut himself, painting his weapons and armor with his own blood. At one occasion he was seen lighting his own extremely thick and bushy beard ablaze, writhing and inhaling with some sadistic pleasure. His raggedy, smoke-scorched tone of voice has frightened even a few orc recruits. He was said to have achieved a signature maniacal laughter when boarding enemy ships, pissing the pants off many a sailor.
Equipment: - Derthag's Armor; While out scouting or taking time off to instruct other orcs in a variety of melee techniques, he usually wears his dire-wolf fur garment with leather-reinforced straps and such. In battle, guard duty, or any other contract that requires it, however, he is rather heavily enforced. With
plate armor, backed by his fur-stitched cloth,reinforced with steel greaves, and topped off with a steel helm and visor, he is an intimidating sight to behold. Standardized company chainmail droops from the base of the neck down to a few inches below his plate cuirass, and covers his entire arms, hands and fingers with padded gloves protecting his hands and fingers from the chains as he clenches onto his weapons. Every so often he tears out the fur-stitching and goes out to hunt another direwolf, in order to replace the packed fur in his armor, of which covers any viable openings to the skin and provides padding as a substitute for a lack of leather.
- Carries upwards of four
Francisca throwing axes.
- Two
broader axes for close and personal melees.
- An intimidating
morningstar often dual-wielded by one of his broader axes, or used with both hands for greater momentum.
- At times, Derthag will requisition for a warg-drawn cart carrying bundles of Francisca throwing axes for any unit on the job properly trained with them. If not possible, he'll be contempt with lugging a hefty sack full of them for his fellow comrades.
- His fur and leather stitched satchel, which contains various paper parchments for cartographic purposes, different pouches with inkwells to prevent leaking, quills of all sorts, a spyglass, a whetstone for sharpening blades, a separate pouch for various intoxicating herbs, and his families
pipe tomahawk of which has been passed down for generations.
Personality: Exceptionally wise, even for an orc, Derthag learned to channel his rage and focus his anger towards something productive. As he felt hopeless to control anything in his life as a younger, more brash orc, he spent many years brandishing an uncontrollable hatred towards everything living. Essentially desensitized to all forms of life, he had slaughtered and mutilated just about anything he could reasonably get his hands on. After years of sadistic mammal torture, he seemingly soothed himself into a meditative state, where he decided to travel. It's unknown exactly how, but he managed to subdue his anger and become more of a transcendent being than an orc, except on the battlefield of course.
Calm, cool, and collected. When fights break out in the company and comrades are cheering on for spilt blood, Derthag is usually on top of it, attempting to persuade his brothers to stand together and resolve their differences via some other means than violence. He is not known to talk much, and usually has to really form an attachment to his kin in order for him to open up. Some suspect a certain degree of mental illness, as at times he is seen focusing into blank spaces and talking to his family, all of whom have died when he was only fourteen.
Backstory:Ragihr...the name carried a cumbersome weight upon Derthag. It's origins from the Ghûl-Bhazä tribe of the mainlands, twisted into what the majority of this mortal plane deemed "an abomination in the eyes of all gods." Nearly two hundred years prior to Derthag's ascension into maturity, a dwarven noble held the title of Prince Ygvir Ragihr. Set out from the northernmost confines of Icerock, he sought fame and fortune with half of his clan, to embark upon an expedition the likes most dwarves were unaccustomed to. It would be the Ghûl-Bhazä tribe to become their first encounter with foreign culture, and the same would go for those primitive orcs as well.
Seeing such an awe-inspiring sight of gilded armor and gleaming weapons of steel and iron, the orcs immediately began worshipping the stout figures, ignoring their stumpy height. It wouldn't be long before Ygvir and his men found an exotic interest in the orcish females, effectively winning a duel challenged by the orc war-chief, spiking his head upon a pike and claiming the title of the tribes leader. So began a decade of interbreeding, of which the male orcs found an immensely hateful bout of jealousy overcome their senses. Both sides suffered heavy casualties overnight in a bloody bath of conflict ill-met towards claiming the females as their own.
With Ygvir having barely survived, he retreated back to Icerock half starved and fully bloodied alongside what few dwarves were left. The male orcs of the tribe promised to slaughter every female that did not dispose of their abominable half bred children, and so those that weren't massacred made haste, trailing behind the path of the endangered Clan Ragihr. For nearly five years, they faced an immense amount of hardships. Traveling to and fro lands they had never before witnessed, at times experiencing culture shock.
As the remnants of Clan Ragihr and the Ghûl-Bahzâ tribe reached the bone-chilling borders of Icerock, a grim and bleak future was all that awaited. Within the span of a decade, Clan Ragihr was condemned for their actions, and so began a clash of various clans throughout Icerock. During this time, many purebred orcish females had died out from the harshness of the cold, or had starved from the lack of any animals to hunt. The halfbreds, now fully mature, began a systematic breeding order in a vain attempt at purifying their bloodline. And so, following the next hundred and fifty years, the events of Icerock unfolded.
Around roughly the fourth generation of mixed-race orcs had Derthag been born. Nothing of importance was to note until the day he turned fourteen, now a full fledged adult, soon to witness the merciless slaughter of his entire tribe. Indeed, it was Ygvir Ragihr and what little remained of his clan. Upon suffering a major loss in the Ragihr Keep, broken and defeated, they sought a negotiation from the Dvergr King of Icerock. To 'correct' their mistakes and systematically wipe out the orcish invaders in order to be allowed back into society. It was a solemn night, much of Derthag's family having slept with bellies full of Caribou, a lucky catch from the morning before. He awoke to freezing water creeping up on his spine and the smell of charred wood, fur and flesh in his nostrils. The screams of his fellow friends, brothers and sisters, and his own mother had momentarily deafened him in his hasty escape to the outskirts of camp. One of the only survivors, he soon found himself alone, with barely any clothes to shelter him from the cold and no tools to hunt what little life existed out in the deadwoods.
One might say adrenaline kicked in, as it couldn't have been pure emotion driving him to such an act. Creeping up on the now drunken, celebrating dwarves warming up by the fires of burning tents and orcs, he yanked a throwing ax straight from a clansman's clutch and automatically thrust it into his fellow brother's groin. Intoxicated, and now writhing in pain, the afflicted dwarf called to arms with what gurgled words he managed to spew out. Through the sound of cackling fires and boisterous laughter, his cries for help rang unheard. Now, the dwarf whose ax was stolen soon found himself toppled over, his wrinkled face on the wrong end of Derthag's heel. Enough pressure was applied for the blooming orc to hear a satisfying crack. Blood began to seep it's way through the melting snow. Casually walking up to the next stumpy, still wrestling about in an attempt to reconfigure his genitals, the pale orc swiftly thrust the ax into a deeper cut before tearing it out with some effort and lodging it in his victim's throat. Two down, another twenty to go.
Luckily, bags full of dwarven throwing axes lay not too far by. Even luckier, five of Derthag's fellow tribesmen survived and rendezvoused with him just around the corner of the celebrating dwarves. Having studied their short and stout neighbors use such weapons, the four orcs lobbed and heaved at least thirty axes upon the marauders. Unfortunately, many of them missed, only killing six dwarves and wounding three. The battle that ensued was a tightly packed conflict of spewing blood, spilling entrails and gut-wrenching cries of agony. Already deafened to a point of psychotic rage, Derthag was oblivious to nearly three lethal cuts and a burning left foot as he hacked his way into the center of the pool of sloshy, crimson-drenched snow. Both him and Ygvir were left gasping for breath and clenching their teeth, toppling on top of each other as they tried terribly to wound one another with splintered axes and broken fists. Neither one gaining the upper hand, and both men realizing now that they'd no one left alive on either side, collapsed next to a roasting pile of orcs.
Ygvir, in his old age, accepted death with ease. His final words shared with Derthag are unknown to anyone but Derthag himself. What was known, is that he relinquished an ancestral heirloom to the Ghûl-Bahzâ tribe, a pipe tomahawk with the old tribe's quarter moon symbol embedded on the blade, in addition to asking one favor of Derthag, to carry on his clan's name in lieu of him being the last surviving connection to it. As a promise to restore the lost honor bestowed upon the Ragihr name, the brash young orc accepted it. And so began his life.
From the Savage Frontier to the Verdant Gulf, Derthag spread his name far and wide. Many locals questioned such a thing. "Is it true?" They'd ask a barkeep. "That they say he's part dwarf? No mercenary band or pirate captain would accept the likes of such an abomination!"
Oh, but they did. From roaming mercenary, killing his fair share of wildmen and bandits across the plains, to menacing pirate, boarding ships with a combination of arrow volleys, devastating rams and greek fire. He was known to be as collected and calm in solitude as he was bold and reckless in battle. He finally made a name for himself aboard a dwarven captain's boat, Redbeard, taking part in the sinking and raiding of over twenty merchant ships. Regretfully, he had never learned from his past nearly eight years ago. One night, participating in a celebratory drinking contest of spirits and ale, a navy ship rammed into Redbeard's, spewing greek fire over the deck. The familiar stench of burning flesh and wood overcame Derthag, and he could do nothing but watch his colleagues die a wretched death as he was knocked off the boat. Floating ashore on a lone, charred plank in the Verdant Gulf, he once again found himself with nothing.
As he washed aboard the muddy sands that following morning, he stumbled his way to a tavern laying just abroad the horizon. Hungover, with splintered wood in just about every shadowed orifice of his body, he ordered a bottle of rum and honeyed ale with no intention of paying for it. As he downed the last drop, he made way for the door, only to be stopped by two fellow orcs, one dressed rather plainly and another adorned in plate armor decorated with symbolic, red-painted markings. "Ya gonna' pay fa' ya drinks, or will ya' be payin' it wit' ya' bloodied tusks?" The armored orc inquired with his tusks showing, his eyes glaring and his fists raised. The plainly dressed orc raised his hand to his predecessor.
"That wont be necessary, Grob. Excuse my friend here, he's got a thing for that lizard-lookin' barkeep over there. Name's Frohm, you's Derthag da Tarlung, ain't ya?"
"Maybe, depends on ye' askin', and what for."
"Ah, bleedin' great. Me an' a few acquaintances are running a new mercenary company down the road a ways. We ain't doin' good on numbers, an' I've heard enough about ya' to know we could use you. Ya' might meet some ovva' recognizable faces, ya' ever heard of ol' Radush Eyedrinka'?"
A low, humming grumble sounded from Derthag. "Not interested, i'd like to just lie down and die, thank ye'."
"Well the way I see it, ya've got one a two ways a payin' fa' those drinks. My friend Grob here's gonna tear out yer' tusks, an' make ya' choke on 'em, or ya' can join Nar Mat Kordh-Ishi and hopefully die a more honorable death. Eitha' way, mate, ya won't be dying layin' down."
With a smirk grimmer than death itself, and not quite in the mood for ending his day with his own throat torn open by his own tusks, Derthag set out with his kin to soon join the pikes, and inevitably, the Chosen.
