At the edge of the Worldwound, a tribal warrior descended from the kingdom of Sarkoris coupled with a nameless orc berserker in a night of hard, cold necessity, and the soldier that was conceived was Lorghan. Born into warfare, the young half-orc learned to hold a sword almost before he could walk, and as he grew he was tried against demonic hordes and rival tribes. He was taught that he was fighting for the ruined nation of Sarkoris, taught to be proud of his heritage, proud of his scars, but as the years wore on, as his friends fell around him, and as children starved to death for lack of food or lack of strength, Lorghan began to realize that pride was simply a veil for desperation - they were not fighting for glory, but simply to survive.
Disillusioned and jaded, Lorghan grew dissatisfied with his people's meager existence, and began searching for something more. His thoughts turned to the crusaders who his people held with such dire scrutiny. In them, he saw the sense of purpose that his people espoused to possess. Their soldiers did not kill and compete with one another as his people did with the other tribes. They fought and died, yes, but for their knights, there was more - there was a hope for a future beyond lying on some lifeless and forsaken battlefield. Most of his tribe dismissed these ideas as foolish, radical, and even dangerous, but a he was able to sway a small band of warriors, mostly men and women from the younger generation, and in the night they left, taking most of the children with them to the citadel-city of Nerosyan, where they pledged themselves to the crusader's cause in exchange for a home.
Lorghan soon found, however, that this reality was as cold and harsh as the one he'd known in the blasted wilderness. His people were looked down upon and used as fodder by the crusaders. They nicknamed them the "ratkin" for their uncivilized manner and wretched fecundity, and they were always the first into any battle, no matter the foe. Lorghan fought not only against demons, but also against tribes he had once called his neighbors.
One day, after a fierce battle against a group of barbarians who had been raiding small outpost, he was picking through the corpses looking for usable arrows, and he recognized the face of one of his old comrades among the dead. He tore his gaze from the accusing stare of lifeless eyes, and beheld all around him knights in shining armor, their blades wet with the blood of his former tribesmen - the same blood that now dripped from his axe. With a desperate cry, he fled the village, deserting his oath and the life of war it had bound him to.
Since that day, Lorghan has traveled across Northern Avistan. Wishing to escape warfare and bloodshed, he seeks a place where he can lay down his weapons and live quietly. The rage that once filled him has been replaced by weariness, and he endures the prejudices against his kind without complaint. Thus far, cities have been too oppressive, reminding him of the high walls of Nerosyan, and the wilds have been too unforgiving of peace. In the small settlements of Varisia, though, there seems to be a suitable, and it is in one of these places that he hopes to find a home.
Recently, Lohrgan was passing through Magnimar looking for news and supplies, and caught wind of the upcoming Swallowtail Festival in the town of Sandpoint. Used to a double-dose of derision given his heritage and his upbringing, he was apprehensive of attending such a large gathering of "civilized people," but he finds found himself drawn to the prospect, hoping he might lose himself for a time in the spectacle and revery. To that end, he has made his way towards Sandpoint, daring to wish he might find a home there.
