About Korthul the Lesser
Korthul the Lesser stands a shade under six feet in height - which is significantly undersized by half-orc standards. He wears a dark leather eyepatch over his left eye, while the other is a piercing shade of blue. Beneath a head of short-cropped dark brown hair, his face is relatively scar-free (compared to the rest of his body, at least), and while he has the jutting lower jaw of most half-orcs, his tusks are so small as to be barely noticeable. His skin is very close to that of a dark-skinned human, with a bit of a green hue that becomes more apparent in brighter light.
His equipment, while well-made, seem as though they have seen hard use. On his axe and dagger blades, only the edges look clean and sharp; his leather armor has darkened through use and sweat, but appears to be no less effective for it. His piercing gaze lands upon anything that interests him, and takes the time to assess what it sees, rather than reacting immediately in the manner of his orc brethren. His build is slight for a half-orc, but still much thicker than the average human. All this combines to give you a general impression that if you ever foolish enough to want to bother a half-orc, this is not the one you should choose.
If you speak Half-Orc:
The name Korthul translates into common as 'the lesser.'
Current hp: 18/18
Korthul the Lesser
Korthul (a name meaning ‘the Lesser’ in Orc) is the younger and significantly smaller of a pair of half-orc children born to the Blood Axe clan in the eastern regions of the Hold of Belkzen. Taking after his human father, a captured slave, rather than his orc mother, a powerful warpriestess and fierce warrior, respected amongst her clan. His small size and more human look ensured that he was teased endlessly by his peers, clanmembers, his slightly older (by a few minutes) and significantly larger (by over a foot in height) brother Korghal (meaning ‘the Greater’ in Orc, of course), and of course, his mother, who was so disappointed with him, she stopped caring for him after only a few months, and only the benevolence of a clan elder saved him from dying an infant.
Cursed by his small size, but blessed by a certain raw cunning, Korthul trained harder than every other orc in the clan, even learning to wield two weapons as easily as many of his clanmates wielded one, but all the effort was to no avail. His small stature (by orc standards) would ensure that no-one took him seriously and frequently mistreated him. Scars, broken bones, and many painful days healing from injuries were dealt by orcs whose only desire was to ridicule him for something he had no control over: his size. He realized that he did not belong here, but he did not see another life for himself elsewhere.
Another point on which his brother and he differed was in temperaments; Korgath was quick to anger and willing to punish for any slight (and Korthul’s mere existence seemed to count as a slight in Korgath’s mind). Korthul was more pragmatic; he didn’t particularly like being in combat if he could avoid it, even though he was quite skilled at it. Unfortunately for him, to be considered a man in orc society, violence must be done, and it was on his coming of age raid that he met a very important person.
They were raiding a caravan, and while his larger brother was licking the blood of fallen enemies off of his axe, Korthul was looking around for survivors. Indeed, he found an older human man that had been struck with a great blow, but seemed as though he could survive. He gave Korthul a frightened look, as though he knew death was imminent and his life was over, and Korthul saw himself in that look. Indeed, he had given that look to his mother, his brother, and his clanmates at some point in his life, and he was tired of it. He asked the man who he was, and he said his name was Professor Lorrimor of Ravengro. He told this Lorrimor that his life was spared, and Lorrimor thanked him. He told him he would always be welcome in his home. Korthul turned away, and told the rest of the raiding party that there were no survivors. They returned home, victorious, and the ceremony that night was one of the few times that the Kor twins had a pleasant night together, partly due to the artificial merriment of drink.
It was a few years later when things got ugly. Their mother, Tarzathahk, was ill and lay dying from an unkown illness. Korthul was never treated well by his mother, but he had enough orc honour drilled into him to know that he had to attend to her. The brothers sat there, watching their mother waste away for days, and when she was finally gone, Korgath completely lost control of his emotions. Bellows of anger and sadness emerged from him, tears streaming down his cheeks along with saliva frothing from his mouth as he drew his axe and targeted the closest living thing that he could find: his brother. They duelled for a brief time, Korthul narrowly evading his brother’s blows, hoping he would calm down, screaming at his brother to stop. Finally, Korgath grabbed a hold of his brother and started squeezing. He got a thumb into Korthul’s eye and pushed as hard as his might would allow. Korthul let out a scream of pain, and without realizing it until after he’d done it, slipped a dagger into his brother’s sternum. Straight into his heart.
He tried to gather his thoughts and he couldn’t, so he gathered his things instead. If there’s one thing he knew, it was that he was only tolerated due to the infamy of his mother and brother. With both of them dead, he would not last a week in the Blood Axe clan. He left his home under the cover of nightfall, intending to tend to his eye later. It was too little, too late, however, and he never saw through that eye again. He spent a day gathering his thoughts and deciding what to do next. He knew he didn’t want to go further west into Belkzen and that gave him only one option. The name was at his lips.