Mogrohl's page

HP: 17
AC: 11
Strength: 22
Constitution: 19
Falchion Power attack: +6; 2d4+12

Chief Kroghut, of the Broken Spine tribe, stared down at the broken Mogrohl with utter hatred. Kroghut outstretched a palm in Mogrohl’s direction and looked up at the audience, Mogrohl on display. ”This is what happens to stupid pups that open their mouths.”

Mogrohl, lying prostrate, tried to prop himself up with a forearm. A long string of blood hung onto his lip and almost touched the ground. ”I could’ve had you! Mogrohl yelled, the blood falling off his lip but a new bead started to form. During the duel, Kroghut went off balance for a moment, his neck exposed to the Mogrohl’s blade, but Mogrohl merely struck the broadside of his falchion onto Kroghut’s helmet with a clang.

”The defeated dog will say any lie,” Kroghut said, slamming a warhammer down next to Mogrohl’s head. ”Besides, if true, then you are weak for not taking the chance.” Kroghut picked the warhammer back up and looked to some of his soldiers nearby. ”Tie this dog up. I will whip him myself.”

After flaying his Mogrohl’s whole body, Kroghut left Mogrohl to die tied to the whipping post. After a few hours unconscious, Mogrohl chewed his binds like a rat until he could rip them apart, his muscles still strong.

While not officially exhiled, Mogrohl’s only path was clear. Join another clan, prove his strength, and the next time he sees Chief Kroghut, it wouldn’t be the broadside of his blade that would strike his head.

Mogrohl has an innate desire to prove his strength. While on a deeper level, it’s a response to his embarrassing past, but Mogrohl can’t consciously acknowledge this fact, at least not at his current age and maturity. On any given day, Mogrohl wants everyone to fear him, including his orcish kin.

Height: 6’3”
Weight: 258
Age: 16

Mogrohl stands slightly taller than an average orc and exhibits a standard orcish build. His shoulders are broad and arms flaunt sculpted muscles. Even his leg muscles look like thick ropes tightening between his ligaments. His has dark green skin and black hair knotted into dreadlocks.

His face rudely greets the eyes with a broad nose and thin lips, only seen upon close examination. His red eyes communicate only rage, always focused in an intense way on a target, whether the target exists nearby in the flesh or within Mogrohl’s mind.

Mogrhol’s studded leather armor barley clings to his body and his exposed skin exhibits thick scars of flaying. These aren’t scars placed with aesthetic purpose but punitive, marks and memories of a brutal whipping. When looking at him from the front, a falchion handle and javelins rise above his head like a battle banner.

Mogrhol doesn’t look like someone who greets others. And if he does greet someone, then they should be fearful, for today could be their last.

Mogruhl respects strength and not much else. The small and weak are merely the supporting cast to the siege he wants to lay upon the world.

Light; 81/300 pounds.