Falgrim-1's page

About Falgrim-1

Falgrim's life was never easy. His Kellid tribe eked out a hard living with a semi nomadic lifestyle around a northeastern spur of the tusk mountains. Between orcs, demons and the naturally hard living in the northern wastes he was accustomed to a hard living. Just after his 11th summer he would learn just how hard life could be. And again, this was in comparison to orc raiders, massive beasts, rough terrain, harsh weather and even demons from the World Wound. A portion of his tribe routinely traveled and traded before the winter snows hit while the rest began to prepare for the winter's onslaught. It was his first chance to travel from the skirts of his mother. The trades went well and as the expedition returned, from miles out they could tell all wasn't right upon their return. Quickening their pace only lended to the dread they all began to feel as they approached. The village was ruined. The dead lay haphazardly every where. Both friend and foe. Orcs. A quick assessment revealed the attack to only have occurred very early in the morning. If they were quick they could catch them. They would travel light.

Breaths came in raggedly. The only breaks were short, to confirm they hadn't lost their quarry. As the sun set the adults showed no signs of slowing. It wasn't til midnight a three hour reprieve came. It was over too quickly. Fatigue started to set in as they moved higher into the mountains driving thoughts of glory, fighting, food and even family from his mind. It happened just in dawn's faintest pre-light. The whistle of arrows and javelins. The sickening thud of rocks. The howl of orcs charging from ambush. They must've picked up on us following them. Skidding to a halt he fell back on training that had been drilled into him. He cast towards the dark shapes and planted his longspear. The next moment he could feel the haft bow with the pressure of an orc body impaling itself. There was a spark of elation at his success. His first kill. He was useful. They were going to save their friends and avenge the fallen. The spark was quickly snuffed as the momentum of the orc's bulk hit him full force. The wind was driven from him and his head hit the ground and began to ring. He was pinned and felt as though he were suffocating. The mass wouldn't move easily and the persistent dull ring and sharp in take of breath made it all the more difficult to orient in the predawn. Even the din of battle seemed distant. The struggle from beneath the oppressive weight and stink seemed an eternity. But he was free. A rough backhand ended the brief success. Guttural voices mocked and laughed. Was he alone? Blood poured from his nose and mouth. Still the dull ring and the predawn teased him with sensory deprivation. Mere hints as to what was around him. He scrambled as the dark shapes began to crowd in. He felt his fingers brush against the hilt of a weapon. There was no thought only action. As a dark form leaned in he swiped with a horizontal slash. Even as the figure fell back gurgling he was up and driving the blade into another stunned tormentor. He tried to run but felt himself being lifted bodily off the ground. A brief feeling of weightlessness caught his breath and then he was careening through the air. He'd feel free if not for the total lack of control. A granite wall stopped all other feeling. He struggled to his feet, but there was no coherent thought. Just need. He needed to save his fellow tribe members, his family, his friends. He needed to save himself. His limbs didn't respond as directed. He stumbled and rolled and sprang up like a leaf in a turbulent wind. He didn't even see the haft of the spear that split his crown.

He awoke in a daze. His head felt swollen and it hurt to move his mouth. The world began to coalesce itself into recognizable images and sounds. He was in chains and in a pit. Bars separated him from other similar pins. The chains severely hampered movement and flexibility. He struggled to sit up. It was exhausting.

"Psst. Hey kid." The whispered words came seemingly from a distance. The words slowly making sense. "Kid?!" Came again in a harsh whisper.

"Huh?" Was all he could manage.

"That wasn't too smart. You coulda surrendered and be sold off as a slave. I've heard the brutes joking about having something special in store for you."

The voice was coming from a child?! What would he know. His mind seemed to lurch forward to full speed and then panic. Falgrim tried to spring forward only be tripped by his bonds and bang his head on the bars.

"Easy kid. You don't want to be the center of attention here. Take it from me, this isn't the first time I've been set to being sold into slavery." Falgrim glanced at the child like face and a grin untarnished by circumstances beyond his own comprehension.

"Why do you keep calling me kid? You're half my age boy." His confusion and pride made him sound bitter and his voice nearly cracked with frustration.

"Calm down young man. I'm 34. My name is Raspnetti. Skip Raspnetti. I'm a halfling. And if they suspected I wasn't a kid I might not make it to the slave markets in the south. It's easier to escape there than here friend. What did you do?"

"I killed three of them while attempting to avenge my tribe, my family...." His voice trailed off.

Skip felt a pang of sympathy. "You may yet get out of this. As long as they see you as more valuable than some sport that may kill you."

"You understand orc?"

"Amoung other languages. I also know it ain't over till the fat orc stops stinking. And they don't stop stinking after death."

"How can you be so...?"

"Chipper?" His grin was almost infectious.

A sudden crushing despair fell on him. The situation seemed more solid in his mind. It began slumping his shoulders, pulling his cheeks down and tears blurred his vision. There was nothing for him but an orc hordes cruel and malicious sport. He looked around peering into the darkness he saw nobody familiar in the gloom. He called out his tribes night challenge. No reply came save Skip hushing him.

"Trust me kid you don't want any undue attention. And I don't want to be in the cell next to undue attention. Don't be selfish."

The admonishment struck his uncomplicated standards and morals as rude. He was offended by Skip's want to be invisible. Death was better. He shuddered. He wanted death. He stood up and roared. He railed against the bars with his manacles. He would have satisfaction one way or another. It wasn't long before a door was thrown open and Skip made himself as small as possible in the opposite corner of his adjoining cell. Guttural barks and curses accompanied heavy footsteps banging on metal roofs stopping just before his. The roof of his cell flung open and a roar preceded a long paddle like club thumping him to the ground. He wasn't deterred. He stood again and screamed for death. The club came again and the roof was slammed and bolted as the guard left, but only for a moment. Again the bolt and slam of the cell roof. This time he was ready. Or so he thought. He wasn't greeted by a weapon he could attempt to grab and wrestle loose, but a bucket full of filth. It invaded his senses and he was on the floor retching before he knew what hit him. It had seemingly oozed into every opening. The orc walked away laughing and saying something in it's fiendish tongue he couldn't understand. He laid there sobbing and hacking in filth and vomit.

"How could life be so cruel?" He whimpered to himself.

He was startled when Skip's answer came having felt utterly alone. "Life is never bad. Life is always good."

"How can you say that? This isn't good."

"Life is always a good thing son. It's living that gets hard from time to time. I don't know what awaits me on the other side of the veil called death, but here I can exert some influence over my circumstances. Even if it's just a smile. And now the bad news. You're going to fight in their arena. Apparently the offspring of the orcs you killed want to publicly kill you. The guard is hoping one of Gorm's brats kill you. Probably a fair amount of wages going on."

"Then I get to die fighting. Desna bless me and Gorum take me."

"It'd be something if you killed off all the spawn." Skip's grin was contagious this time. Hope swelled his chest and dulled his pain.

Skip proved to be quite knowledgeable in tactics and what he called anatomy. No such thing as a fair fight and don't underestimate the effect of a war trophy from a fallen foe.

Falgrim soaked it all in. His coming of age ritual would be unique. If he ever came of age.

When they came for him he was ready. Ready to do what ever he must. Ready die. But not before letting every orc know that he had lived. He didn't fight or struggle as he was lifted from the pen. Nor as he was marched through intersections and down hallways of incredible size. The sound of drums and the clamoring of a restless crowd grew to a steady roar. Huge double doors parted and he was greeted by a spectacle of seemingly thousands of orcs. He was at the bottom of a bowl shaped arena. Walls raised 20 ft followed by row after row of hateful eyes. A makeshift row was built from wood sat against the far side. Youthful orcs jeered, flexed and glared in his direction. He seemed to be underground. A mountain of an orc called for silence as horns blared and he patted the air with his arms outstretched. He had the presence of a giant and the bearing of a king. He walked slowly down from his dias on steps that formed beneath his feet and melted away into the wall again as soon as he passed. His voice was too loud and too clear. Falgrim understood none of it. He focused instead on his would be killers. He became numb to all else save them.

*The sons and daughters of Torg, Gorm and Nutwor demand the blood of the cowardly soft human child that luckily took their lives. I have decided this lose of a valuable slave only be lost if the rest of us are entertained!* The roared at this until brought quiet again. *Twenty-nine of their seed have stepped forward to claim this honor. Whether they are legitimate or not is suspect* The entire stadium erupted in laughter at this. *Bets have been made on every youth but the soft skin. So as an added bonus I have put 5,000 gold pieces on him. The victorious orc gets 1,000 and the rest is divided amongst the clever gamblers.* All erupted in ferocious cheering at this. *But so it isn't over too quick,* he gave wink at this, *I have commanded that none wear armor and only get one weapon of choice. And for the long pig,* he deftly draws a dagger, presents it to the crowd and plants it at Falgrim's feet. As he walks back to his dias he closes with, *I wouldn't want any orc in my tribe that couldn't kill a pink skin child anyway.*

Falgrim pulled the dagger from the ground. Twenty-nine he counted. Were all these their children? Being no expert on orcish age he could only guess some were at least 18 winters and maybe one was 9 winters. Would they all advance at once? They were all armed, but unarmored. The crowd laughed and roared as the chieftain waltzed and spoke around him. He was focused though. None of it mattered. His soul was Gorum's. Desna bless him.

A dagger entered his focus. A large young orc began to strut to the arena floor with an equally large axe laying casually on his shoulder. Falgrim picked the dagger up. His first opponent put the axe through some spins and arcs accompanied by words that meant nothing to his untrained ears. He was ready though when the brute hefted and charged. Both hands pulling it out wide. The dagger left his hand and buried itself deep in his left eye socket. He came to a tumbling halt two feet away from him. The crowd was stunned. Even more so when he reached down and pulled a tusk from his foe's lower jaw and then hefted his new weapon. It was long moments before the next youth realized it was his turn and came charging with a spear. Again Falgrim was ready. The axe went in an upward arc cleaving the orcs face in two. His momentum nearly bowling Falgrim over. Off balance and another coming fast he flung the axe in a sideways spin. The weapon went low fast, but it caught him in the shins tripping him up. Picking the spear up to quickly finish the job he dismissed him seeing his lower leg nearly severed below the knee and spun to set the spear to take the charge of the next impatient youth. It entered through his neck and exploded out of the top of his head. The next six moved in more cautiously. They fell as well. Although he took blows or cuts as they traded blows. As one fell another was itching to take his place. All approached smarter, slower and with some measure of respect. Quick glory had vanished from their minds. Whenever he got a chance he would rip another tusk out.

The eleventh moved in twirling a spiked ball on a chain. Falgrim fell back, the next orc was on the arena floor before his fellow had failed his feet grinding in the dirt. He would charge quickly. Probably before his brethren fell. Rules might soon leave all together. His withdraw was calculated though and he was going to be ready for the quick twelfth. There! He dodged the ball and the orc stepped where a halberg haft lay over a fallen comrade. It's back spike drove up into his groin when he stepped on the haft. Falgrim sword arced over as he doubled over. Sure enough the other was coming. He threw the blade end over end.

Caution returned. His wounds seemed superficial. Four more fell and the fifth was halted as the warlord addressed the remaining thirteen. They looked at each other after hearing his words and began a mad scramble over the makeshift railing and down the steps. They pushed and hacked at one another. He was pretty sure two or three had broken legs going over the banister and down the stairs. Falgrim hurled a spear and met another with a sword before he was blown over by more than a thousand pounds of slab like muscle and teeth. It became hard to breathe and harder to move. He felt nails rake his flesh teeth grab hold of him. He squirmed and moved desperately. He fought as hard for air as he did his own life. They rolled here and there. Fighting each other almost as much as him. He saw the dagger then, within reach, he reached for it. His fingers danced tantalizingly on the hilt before he had to bring his arm in to defend himself. He grasped again only to have teeth clamp on his forearm. The mouth wrenched his arm painfully. Blood was running in his eyes. A blade from outside the ball of brawling came close to it's mark slicing his cheek. Again it came but sank into the neck of the orc biting his arm as he jerked and pulled him in his way. He reached again for the dagger as the jaws went slack. Strength surged as fingers locked around the hilt. He brought it in and stabbed every which way he could. Blood flowed freely. As he pulled himself from the tangle of orcs one was left on the other side of the pile. Falgrim bent over picked up a spear and periodically jabbed it in orc bodies as they began to circle each other. Spear in one hand and dagger in the other. Some bodies squirmed in his peripheral. Blood oozed and flowed from more than a dozen separate wounds. Closer and closer they circled. The other had a wicked looking boar spear leveled at Falgrim. As the tension grew and it seemed they were about to collide something grabbed Falgrim's calf he jabbed viciously down. He barely caught the movement of his opponent thrusting in. The boar spear caught him high on the right side of his chest below the shoulder. The force of the blow nearly took him off his feet. His balance was all for naught as his last foe drove him to the ground controlling his path and descent with the boar spear. Falgrim landed hard and the orc twisted the spear illiciting a scream. A scream that was met by wild applause and screaming from the spectators and a boot stomping firmly on his midsection.

Falgrim's vision began to blur and go dark at the edges. Time stretched like a hide being tanned. Nothing was familiar...one thing was familiar. His left hand had never let go of the dagger. He focused on the knee attached to the boot. Suddenly the dagger was protruding through it. The orc howled and fell back holding his thigh just above the knee.

Falgrim rolled over to his right side. He grasped the long boar spear blade and pulled it free. The crowd was erupting. He pulled himself bodily up the spear after planting the butt. His head swam wildly. More than two dozen bodies lay about forever stilled. Where was the last one?

Thick fingers grabbed his scalp in answer. He sat in response pulling the spear back. The orc and spear met above his head. He couldn't hear anything. He couldn't feel anything. He rolled out and lay on his back. He stared into the darkness of the ceiling and closed his eyes. Soon Gorum would claim his victorious dead. He could feel his spirit getting lighter.

*He's a funny looking little orc!* He lifted the boy bodily grabbing him by the neck and below the jaw. The crowd laughed. It was quite a spectacle they had just witnessed. The boy's eyes opened peering down at him as he held him aloft. He brought him in closer, pondering. None would likely claim justice and he was in no shape to sell. He was brought out of his pensive state by a solid, yet harmless punch to his jaw before the boy's body went fully limp. He laughed hard and long. He had an idea.

Eventually Falgrim drifted into consciousness. He couldn't move his right arm, but felt comfortable otherwise. He was covered in bandages and his right arm arm was bound tightly to his chest. He was in a cage filled with cushions and furs inside an expansive bedchamber. This would be his life for the next two years. A game would develop between tribes pitting child against child. He became more and more feral over that time and he killed any one set against him. He fought the idea of killing other humans and elves at first, but that was beaten out of him. He was a pet. A plaything. A source of amusement. He was witness not only to his own heinous acts, but to those committed against human, elf and orc female alike in bedchamber and traveling tent too.

Two years passed before something changed while en route to another blood sport, one of seemingly hundreds. Explosions and waves of force rocked the his cage. The sound of pitched battle reached his ears. When things seemed settled he was on edge. Every little sound seemed like a veiled threat. When the flap was opened at the rear and human eyes peered in with a look he was unfamiliar with he threw himself to the back of the cage. Soft words came to him. They almost made sense. He was scared. So when the cage door opened he did the only thing he knew: attack. He was a bolt that bore his would be rescuer to the ground. Teeth tore flesh from face and hands pulled at a sheathed weapon. He ran, but he kept running into more people. He slashed and dashed. Was this a new sport? Becoming cornered he leapt at his nearest assailant bearing him to the ground. He raised his sword above his head. The blow had already been dealt in his mind. But a tingle, a wash of strange energy coursed through him. His muscles wouldn't respond. He strained with all his might. This was his life. Failure meant death. Was that the next sensation? His vision went dark. His life was over.

He awoke in a simple and austere room. It turned out to be a small elven enclave that doubled as an wilderness outpost. He was calmed magically and questioned as to what had transpired. All he he could think of was revenge against the mountain of an orc. Getting to the fortress hidden in the mountain. Yet as he would try to sneak away he was intercepted and talked out of it. If he couldn't get by people keeping a casual vigilance towards him how could he succeed against what he described as a well guarded fortress? He was offered training by elven battlemasters, but he also had to study and pass tests in order to gain access to further lessons. He balked at his first fighting lesson when he was tossed a quarterstaff. He was after all a battle tested young man of the Raptorscales and a horror hardened gladiator in an orcish bloodsport. Falgrim was tossed a heavy bladed that curved forward by an elf with a wry grin. "If you can draw any blood you can leave any time you like equipped however you like and learn anything you like before leaving. But if you lose, you do as I say and learn what I teach you and any other here deems you worthy of learning." This was an acceptable bet to Falgrim. He moved in roaring with rage. But time and time again he hit nothing but air. The staff came in again and again hitting nerves and soft spots. sending he blade from his hand time and time again. He didn't give up. He fought until he was finally knocked unconscious. He hadn't even come close, hadn't even forced a retreat or put him on his heels. He had even thrown the blade. He might as well have been fighting the air itself.

He did honor his word. Albeit stubbornly at times. Some days he had to just vent. He would run into the woods leaping and jumping over fallen trees. His favorite place was a sharp spur of rock that jutted up in the forest. He would climb it to clear his mind. He built obstacles at the base and ran it like a course. Having gotten weary of going to several locations to get in his favorite exercises. He eventually came to respect the knowledge and skills of all his teachers and late into his 17th year of life he left, with his mentors' blessings and confidence, to find out if Skip had made it out alive, thank the pathfinders that had delivered him from his tormentors and to of course get revenge for his people and himself.