Therrik's page

As above, but with more details and yammering!

Therrik was one of half-a-dozen of his mother's children-- though the only one with orc blood among them. Though she never said as much, he's fairly sure that his mother's liasion with his father was consensual... perhaps the stigma of that alone would be why she doesn't talk about it. His childhood was spent on riverboats; his mother ran up and down the length of the Sellen on a barge crewed by herself, her large family, and hired hands. It was a rambunctious and active lifestyle, and not all of their cargo was legal, but Therrik's memories of those years are mostly good. He was never treated poorly by his family for his green-hued skin, and, by and large, the other people of the River Kingdoms took him in stride as well, for it's a land of various ragtags and outcasts, the dregs of polite society. Accordingly, Therrik doesn't have the chip-on-his shoulder common to many half-orcs. Nor does he feel a gap where his father might have been, in his life: he had brothers, and informal 'uncles', to fill that hole.

When he was ten, his mother's barge docked on the Kyonin shore of the Sellen River for needed repairs... unfortunately close to the Tanglebriar. Therrik and his siblings were let ashore to get them out from underfoot. Therrik noticed an especially tempting berry patch, and followed it... and then another, further on... by the time he realized he was lost, he was already in dangerous territory. Minions of Treerazer spotted the wandering child on the edges of the corrupted swamp, and, with promises that they were taking him back to his mother, they led him further into the swamp.

After scratching twisted runes into the wailing boy's flesh with cursed thorns, the inhuman cultusts prepared to transform him into something... other. Thankfully, Therrik's cries had reached help-- in the form of a Kyonin scouting party who had dared to penetrate deep into Tanglebriar on their mission of hunting and slaying Treerazer's servitors. Arrows streaked from the trees; elves (and one half-elf) followed, cutting down the cultists, saving the child from whatever sinister fate might have awaited him. The more conservative elves in the patrol might not have seen a half-orc child worth saving, but Janayya, the half-elf in the group, argued that he was too young to be considered anything but an innocent.

She treated his bleeding scratches as best she could, but noticed that the lines still showed black, stained with some sort of plant dye (at least, she hoped it was only plant dye). Once Therrik had calmed somewhat, she managed to coax out the information of who he was, and where his family was. Janayya and the elves escorted him back through to the river's edge again, where they were able to reunite him with his worried family. The elves melted away into the trees, and Therrik was left with only fragmented memories of the encounter, manifested as nightmares for some time afterward. The marks have never left his skin, but, as he grew older, most have assumed them to be merely tattoos.

Therrik continued to grow... and grow. By twelve, he was as tall as his mother; by fourteen, he was as tall as any of the men working the boats with them, his orc blood manifesting in a strong back and broad shoulders. His mother, a pragmatic businesswoman who was quick to seize any advantage, paid a swordsman to teach him the ways of a blade, and later on, urged him to join up with the crews of some of the river lords (read: bandits, really), where his size would serve him well.

Therrik did so, for several years. He played the role of 'big, dumb brute' fairly well, especially as he reached his full height and weight. The childhood scars merely made it more fearsome when he growled threats at those who owed river tolls. It was not, perhaps, a fulfilling existence... but there was a kind of cameraderie among the river-crews, and he was respected for the strength of his arms and his skill on a boat, and what exactly did he want out of life, anyway? What more than coin to gamble with, and willing bedmates, and the knowledge that few would pick a fight with you? There worse fates, he told himself, and tried to be content.

At nineteen, Therrik and his current crew fished a body from the Sellen. This was hardly unusual, and usually made for a quick profit; but this one was still alive. She was badly injured, her body covered in scratches and bites. But she was still breathing, and, to Therrik's shock, familiar. It was the face of the half-elf that had helped him as a boy, nine years before. Therrik announced to the others that they'd get her healed, and that anyone who had a problem with it could take it up with him... nobody argued much. Therrik paid a cleric of Hanspur for some healing, and nursed her through what he couldn't buy. In turn, Janayya was startled to see the little boy of a decade gone grown into a strong, competent warrior.

Her story was simple enough: she had been on another patrol, ambushed in the depths of the Tangle, and ultimately had fled in the grips of supernatural fear, corrupted fey harrying her all the way to the Sellen itself, where she had fallen half-dead into the water. With the rest of her patrol most likely dead, Janayya was in no hurry to return to Kyonin itself. She stayed on the crew with Therrik, though he insisted she owed him no debt-- if anything, they were even now-- and, for a few months, she lent her bow to the work of river-guard. But at every turn she spoke of how it was unworthy work, a mere step or two above piracy, and that Therrik obviously could aspire to better. He found himself listening.

They became friends, and Janayya persuaded him to leave the river and come with her for 'a challenge, if you're up to it.' For several more months, they camped on the banks of the Sellen where it borders the Tanglebriar, and Janayya instructed him in the ways of the woods, in hunting on land, and also, in the fine art of demon-slaughter. They would lurk for hours to catch one of Treerazer's minions that came too close to the edges of the wood, and then strike together. It was teamwork of a sort Therrik had never known, more intimate than the rough river crews. Furthermore, he felt validated as he turned his blade, not against merchants and ruffians, but against the abominations that had haunted his childhood dreams.

He also felt drawn to Janayya. She was the antithesis of his world in some ways: idealistic where all his acquaintances were pragmatic; ready to die for her beliefs rather than turn tail and save her own skin. She was wise, tough, and she saw in him more than a thug: she saw someone who could be a hero.

In time, their friendship became more than that. Together, they harried minor demons on the edges of the Tanglebriar for another half a year, living off the land and slipping back to the river only when their position became too dangerous or they needed to resupply. It was the happiest time of Therrik's life.

But all things come to an end. Janayya felt she needed to return to Kyonin-- to give the full report of her squad's demise, if nothing else-- and Kyonin would surely not tolerate a half-orc joining their patrols (Janayya herself had struggled to prove her worth over and over). At the same time, Janayya had no desire to leave Therrik, and so, she hit on a solution: they would go to Kyonin, but only so she could report and tender her resignation. Then, the two of them would travel north, to the infamous Worldwound. There, Janayya told Therrik, the two of them could continue to fight demons-- but together, openly, with a society and resources at their back. Therrik was more than willing to follow her wherever she led, including, literally, to the Abyss itself.

The elves, however, would not let Therrik enter Kyonin's boundaries. Frustrated, the lovers agreed to part for a time: Therrik could say his own farewells to his mother and siblings, and Janayya could attend to her business in Kyonin. They decided to meet again in Castle Urion, halfway to the front, at an inn Janayya spoke of.

Therrik was there, the day they agreed to meet. And the next day.... He waited a week in the inn, increasingly worried, fear and doubt preying equally on his mind. Perhaps she'd had trouble, on the road... but even worse, perhaps she'd changed her mind about him, about them. He considered going to Kyonin and trying to find her, but remembering the cool reception he had received before, he ultimately decided to press on to Kenabres on his own. Janayya would come, he was sure of it. Maybe she was already there, even...

Therrik has now been in Kenabres a week. He travels from crusader-crowded inn, to crusader-crowded inn, looking for a half-elf woman with a crooked grin and a bow over her shoulder; so far he has not had any luck. Daily, he wonders if he should have gone the other direction, back to Kyonin after all, but now he is too worried that he might miss her if he leaves. So instead, he's decided to stay, and fight demons, so that when Janayya does arrive, she'll see he hasn't wasted any time.

Therrik is a big guy. He stands six-foot-six, and has the muscles and shoulders to match. His greenish skin and jutting tusks are accentuated by black marks over much of his visible skin, twisting squiggles interspersed with harsh, angular lines. Most people assume they are merely the tribal tattoos that many orcs (and anyone wanting to look like a tough guy) wear. Scholars who are familiar with the Abyssal tongue, however, can notice that the symbols are hardly random: the sigils of Treerazer and other demons are interspersed into the markings. (Therrik himself is not aware of this; Janayya knew, but was worried the information might do him no good, and did not tell him.) Still, as Therrik doesn't usually sit around letting people inspect his skin, it's not something that would be apparent at first, casual glance. Therrik's black hair is worn cropped short, and his eyes are a vivid, new-leaf green.

Therrik is usually dressed simply but serviceably. He wears sturdy boots, brown leather breeches, and a tunic and surcoat of coarse linen, usually in greens, greys, or browns-- the natural colors that he became accustomed to while he and Janayya lived off the land. If expecting trouble, he dons his scale mail. A large falchion is strapped over his back, and a number of other weapons are at hand should he need them. At all times, he wears a simple bracelet on one wrist-- a braid of leather cord, with small, colored wooden beads strung onto the plait.

Despite his battle-ready appearance, Therrik is not particularly quick to violence or anger. As a product of his upbringing, Therrik is pragmatic and practical, and thinks about 'the bottom line' a lot... (You would too, if you'd had his mother.) ... even if he no longer weighs that bottom line merely in terms of coin. He's patient and hard to rile, but doesn't tolerate nonsense-- think the steady, unphased bouncer at a club who will put up with a drunken patron for three warnings and then you're out, pal. During his time in the woods with Janayya, Therrik discovered a deep appreciation for nature; that and his sailor background means he loves the water, swimming and fishing in it and on it. His other hobbies include woodcarving and trying to learn Elven (his accent is awful).

Behind his 'common sense, level head' approach to life, Therrik is still fairly young, and has the specific insecurities of a man in the grips of his first real love, with a woman his senior in various ways. On a background level, he frets about being worthy of Janayya, and good enough, and strong enough. He seeks to prove himself to her-- and to himself, as well; to show that he is, in fact, more than some river thug. He hopes to someday have perhaps a boat of his own, or a cabin by the water, where he and Janayya can settle down after their demon-slaying days are done, and maybe raise a bunch of kids with greenish skin, pointed ears, and crooked smiles.(Closet romantic is closet romantic.)

Regarding religion: Therrik pays a half-hearted, habitual worship to Hanspur, as the river god he was raised with, but he feels no particularly strong allegiance to any of the Golarion pantheon. The closest he has come to feeling 'divinely touched' has been when watching the flow of water over stone and sand, or staring at the clouds drifting overhead, or listening to the wind in the branches of the trees. Gozreh is likely the god he's closest to, but he hasn't yet made that connection in any formal sense: he just knows he likes being out in the wilds, and feels at peace there.