Brother Tumbo

The Nightmare of Dunwick Manor

Pretty interested, if you're still accepting.

The Court of The Red King

Tusk

Name: Tusk to the fairfolk, Shuzzug to the orcs.

Race: Half-Orc

Age: 25

Gender: Male

Appearance: A big man, standing somewhere near seven feet tall, Tusk is a lumbering figure. Thick black hair, long on the top and shaved on the sides and back, is usually gathered into a loose knot on the back of his head. His grayish skin sometimes glistens as green as his eyes in the right light, but its usually a damn flattering light for this effect to take place. His face is wide and flat, facial hair a dark black scruff, longer around the mustaches, chins and side burns than the actual cheek. One of his ears is notched, an old wound from some fanged creature. His entire body is scarred, tattooed, and otherwise mutilated to excess. His frame is solid, the kind of man who could literally push a brick shithouse down. His clothes vary, but he does very much enjoy an old bomber jacket, white fur at the collar and an angry dragon sewn onto the back.

Personality: Compared to his tribe, Tusk is gentle, good-hearted, and humble, not very great characteristics for an orc. Compared to the fairfolk, he’s rough, aloof, and brutish, sticking out like the sorest of thumbs. Tusk thinks of himself as simply an inquisitive spirit with a temper. He absolutely hates the practice of slavery, a vestigial emotion from his own slave days. While he holds the lives of the fairfolk in some regard, his bloodthirsty ancestry comes alive in the badlands, where killing mutants wholesale is practically encouraged. A quiet creature, he spends most of his time tinkering by himself, the only company he cares to keep.

History: The son of a nameless human slave and an orc warrior of no fame, Shuzzug was allowed to live in the orc clan Mishoggrub as a slave-warrior, a thrall. Torn from his human mother once he could stand, and never knowing his orc father, Shuzzug was tossed into the kennels with the other thralls and the hounds, and he survived.

Survival is hard in the kennels. The other thralls are just as willing to kill a man as the slave masters. Though the others were bad, they were nothing compared to the hounds, great hulking beasts with tempers as bad as their smell. Shuzzug had watched one of his comrades get torn to shreds on more than one occasion because of an ill-tempered hound.

As a thrall, Shuzzug was the first into any battle, armed with nothing but his chains and fierce will to survive. Thralls were used to test the enemy lines, and he was good at it, surviving battle after battle because of his wits and good luck. After his thirteenth charge, Chief Mishoggrub freed Shuzzug on the pretense of finding some niche to fill in the clan. It did not take long.

Shuzzug possessed a cunning that no one in the camp possessed, outside of the handful of other half-orcs. He was readily brought into a gang of engineers, most of whom were half-orc as well, with a small retinue of gnomish and dwarfish slaves. Together they reclaimed any old tech with a bloody purpose and refurbished it.

The half-orc engineers were of no better temperament than their full-blooded ilk, just as cruel and twice as smart. They would use their rudimentary knowledge of explosives for fun, blowing up slaves for no greater purpose than pleasure. They used slaves as test subjects for new engines, freshly cobbled together from cannibalized parts, and sent them careening to their deaths in piecemeal vehicles. And they used slaves as food, cannibalizing the fairfolk in different way than they did the engines. As a former slave, Shuzzug held little respect for those activities.

Shuzzug hatched a plan with a dwarf slave, Barundar, to get them back to Terra, in return, Barundar would vouch for Shuzzug and take him on as help. Shuzzug’s strike was unprovoked, unseen, and unexpected.. In the dead of night, Shuzzug released the slaves and gave them a transport truck. Bidding them farewell, Shuzzug claimed a couple of his pet projects. One was a bomb, and damn big one at that. He scrapped the thing together after scavenging an old missile silo a year before. He primed the bomb and hopped onto his other project, a heavy motorcycle covered in a smattering of spikes and bad paint. Just as the sun started to rise, Shuzzug put on a pair of broken sunglasses and sped off, leaving whatever would be left of Clan Mishoggrub to its fate.

Barundar did take him in when he reached Terra. He changed his name to Tusk, and he did the same work for Barundar as he did for the orc engineers, running raids in the old places for tech he would later refurbish; only now he had a mostly full belly.

Strengths: Being a half-orc, Tusk is bigger, stronger, and tougher than most of the other fairfolk. He has more than passing knowledge on a lot of old tech, able to jury rig most contraptions without too much hassle. Tusk is familiar with the badlands and how to survive in them as well, and has had ample experience fighting the mutants out there.

Weaknesses: Unfortunately, his half-orc upbringing had some negative effects outside of being half-mutant. His temper flairs easily, and his fists tend to follow after. He has only seen the badlands and the edge of Terra, so any sort of manners or etiquette are far and away from his mind. Combined, Tusk is a less than charming individual with an ex-slave dwarf as his only friend.

[MEDIEVAL, REALISM] Marches of Man: The Black Shields!

I'm gonna have to drop out of this one. I overestimated the amount of time school and work would take. If this is still going come summer I'd love to join again, but for now, farewell.

[MEDIEVAL, REALISM] Marches of Man: The Black Shields!

Got one going up tomorrow (Mountain time). Should have put one up tonight, but I got caught between a pool table and american politics. One of those takes much less time than the other.

[MEDIEVAL, REALISM] Marches of Man: The Black Shields!

I'll post one tomorrow night. I should have some time then.

[MEDIEVAL, REALISM] Marches of Man: The Black Shields!

I'll be fine without it, so long as we took the time to pick up Frisco the horse. He's got all my stuff.

[MEDIEVAL, REALISM] Marches of Man: The Black Shields!

“What’s your purpose?”

The girl was awake. Good. Keys was about to answer her when an arrow plunged into the ground next to his head. Either the shooter had a great aim, or a poor one.

”Get away from her , you rakki!” came a female voice, most likely the archer that planted the arrow next to his head. Keys put his hands up into the air, not bothering to stand. After his first fight in over four years Keys was exhausted. He was beginning to realize that at the end of his seven years with the Black Shields, he’d be in better shape than he was when he was a freshly knighted.

”I’m no threat,” Keys waved his arms about as he spoke, “I saved the woman. If you’re friends of hers then I’m your friend as well. And if not…” Keys started to rise, dragging his bulk from the mud. He looked over to his sword, now tilted a little in the mud where he’d stuck it. Too far away to get to. He peered over to the archer. She looked strong, but Northerners always were. Obviously the one who had dropped the guards, her aim was no longer in question, she’d meant to miss his head. If Keys charged, she’d have to the time for one, maybe two arrows before he reached her. Not excited with his chances against the quick woman, he fixed her with a stern look.

”I’ll have to kill you.” To emphasize this, he pointed to be broken body of the bandit, quietly groaning in the mud. Keys fists tightened and he imperceptibly began to lift his feet from the mud, freeing him for a quick charge if it came down to it. He looked down to Ellinor, who was saying something about Ivanna. Hopefully this Ivanna was the archer woman, because Keys didn't like his odds if she wasn't.

[MEDIEVAL, REALISM] Marches of Man: The Black Shields!

Just as Keys began to inch away from his hiding spot he heard a heavy thump from the barricade. He turned around slowly, squinting toward it. There was another thump, then a third and an alarm was raised, thick accents shouting into the muffling swamps. Keys turned back to the tree, pressing against it and observing the scene. From the wood line Keys witnessed a group of men, soldiers by all accounts, make their way to the gate of the palisade. Farther along, a lone woman dashed through the trees, seemingly acting as bait.

As the group swung around to the entrance of the fort, one of the members started a dialog. This seemed to confuse the brigands as the entire encampment went into a frenzy. Keys couldn’t help but chuckle, despite the carnage. It ended as quickly as it had begun, most of the brigands were dead, and it seemed only the man in charge was wounded. Keys shrugged off the tree with a sigh and began walking back toward his horse when sudden movement in his periphery drew his attention.

He whipped his head just in time to see a woman get pulled into a thorn bush by a man. Before he even heard her scream, Keys was in a dead sprint toward them. Admittedly, a middle-aged man in armor is not the fastest, and it was of no help that Keys had a certain distaste for exercise. He did, however, make it to the area in his own record time.

Without halting his pace or even missing a step, Keys planted his sword blade into the mud and dove into the thorn bush. His bulk, amplified by his armor and speed, crashed into the man just as he dropped the limp woman. Keys could hear the man’s teeth crunch as his jaw slammed shut, driven into his head by Keys’ armored shoulder. They landed in the mud, the man on his back, hacking blood from his ruined mouth. He sputtered something unintelligible at Keys, who answered him with an almost regretful look as he slammed his fist into the man’s already broken nose a few more times.

Keys stood up, breathing heavily, and wiped some of the blood from his glove on to his breeches. He eyed the crumpled body in the mud. The bandit was still alive, but he’d be eating exclusively soup for the remainder of his life. Then as if suddenly remembering, Keys turned to the woman in the thorn bush. She was covered in little wounds, her skin was pale, and she seemed unconscious, but at least she appeared to be breathing, if ever so slightly. Keys reached down, gently lifting the woman from the bush and laying her down on some of the less squelchy mud he could find. The knight unclasped his honey-yellow cloak and covered the woman. He then sat down heavily beside her, trying to catch his breath.

Reaching out he gave her a cautiously shoved her shoulder. She looked like she’d live.
“Hey,” He wheezed, “Wake up.” His Murkran accent wasn’t as thick as rural folk, but it was still present. He looked over to his sword, sticking out the mud like a like a tiny monolith, then laid down on his back to catch his breath. He’d get the sword later.

[MEDIEVAL, REALISM] Marches of Man: The Black Shields!

There was an audible "Holy shit!" on my side of the computer when I checked the IC thread today. You guys are quick. Off to post.

[MEDIEVAL, REALISM] Marches of Man: The Black Shields!

I was going to have Keys see y'all and investigate. I'll put one up tomorrow. I have school all day and work all night today.