To Find the Orcbloods
Posted: Fri Nov 30, 2012 3:50 pm
The Friendly Arm Inn is an establishment riddled with arrows, tales, and noble names, a place of respite along the often dangerous Trade Way south of Baldur's Gate. It's high walls and ideal location have made it a stop off for a great many travelers seeking to find their fortune along the Sword Coast, and it is here that Raghat Quickthinker, a half-orc of moderate prowess, makes his home-away-from home. Up the battle-worn steps and past the plaque of notaries beside its doorway, he enters into the tavern proper and rests his stolid frame in the company of an equally bitter brew.
"Krasc..." He mutters to anyone and no one, "What the hells is Krasc?"
Not two days past, as he occupied his familiar seat at a table across from the bar, a large adventuring party had sauntered in, still tipsy from the drug of battle, carrying trophies of flesh and reeking of a combat musk. The scent had brought back memories of a previous experience, and pressed more questions than answers into a mind slowly forfeiting itself to a singular pursuit. Raghat had been born to orcs and lived with orcs, in all their notorious brutality, for his entire child and adolescent life, taking life and limb and liberty from those unfortunate enough to lie in his tribe's warpath. But this had not been enough for him. The fury that boils in the blood of every orc is wont to be tempered, but in Raghat's case, it was, by the blood of humans which ran both from his blade and in his veins. His nature drove him forward as a beast, towards the promise of a glorious fight; and with this scent, he stood resolute, determined to discover whatever he could about this Krasc that warband had mentioned, and how it could lead him to fulfillment.
Raghat swaggered out of the tavern with a grim distance in his gaze, he moved unconsciously, thinking, always thinking. Where could he find answers? Perhaps the guardsman who collected the adventurers' trophies would know more? As he returned from the recesses of his mind, the half-breed stood under the twilight next to the auction master's stall.
He wandered, lost, briefly before finding a seat next to the gnomish temple to collect his thoughts. He had always been capable of controlling himself, whether towards calm or rage, but his efforts were becoming increasingly more demanding. It took a great deal of focus to remain seated and not charge out the hamlet's thick wooden gates, out into the forests where he suspected his answers might lay. No. He needed more information. With a shake of his barbarous head, Raghat stood and approached a nearby Fist guardsman.
"Oi, you there. You know anythin' 'bout that group o' fighters passed through here the other day? Tradin' their battle trophies for gold? Spoke to one o' you."
The guardsman gave the orc a curt sizing-up and responded through pursed lips and furrowed brow, "I do not," then, in a standoffish staccato, "Good. Evening."
He turned to leave, and Raghat, blustering with anxiety, walked after him, placing a heavy paw on the white tabard covering the man's left shoulder.
"Listen! What's Krasc? I heard them talkin' about Krasc, what is it?!"
The guardsman spun into a defensive posture and raised his shield, offering the orc little more than the promise of battle in his gaze. In an icy tone, the human responded, "You are not welcome here. Find your way out before there is trouble."
Raghat growled and snarled, his fist instinctively uncurling and darting towards his falchion... but he kept his composure as one with a sudden need to choose his battles more prudently. He spat at the man's feet, glaring, then turned and stomped outside.
What a wonderful position to be in. He knew no more than he had before and was on very thin ice with the one place he felt comfortable in. Raghat, you're losin' it. Time to go south, get some air, he thought to himself. And with that, a driven creature set out in search of his destiny, leaving some of his civility behind at the doorstep of the Friendly Arm Inn.
"Krasc..." He mutters to anyone and no one, "What the hells is Krasc?"
Not two days past, as he occupied his familiar seat at a table across from the bar, a large adventuring party had sauntered in, still tipsy from the drug of battle, carrying trophies of flesh and reeking of a combat musk. The scent had brought back memories of a previous experience, and pressed more questions than answers into a mind slowly forfeiting itself to a singular pursuit. Raghat had been born to orcs and lived with orcs, in all their notorious brutality, for his entire child and adolescent life, taking life and limb and liberty from those unfortunate enough to lie in his tribe's warpath. But this had not been enough for him. The fury that boils in the blood of every orc is wont to be tempered, but in Raghat's case, it was, by the blood of humans which ran both from his blade and in his veins. His nature drove him forward as a beast, towards the promise of a glorious fight; and with this scent, he stood resolute, determined to discover whatever he could about this Krasc that warband had mentioned, and how it could lead him to fulfillment.
Raghat swaggered out of the tavern with a grim distance in his gaze, he moved unconsciously, thinking, always thinking. Where could he find answers? Perhaps the guardsman who collected the adventurers' trophies would know more? As he returned from the recesses of his mind, the half-breed stood under the twilight next to the auction master's stall.
He wandered, lost, briefly before finding a seat next to the gnomish temple to collect his thoughts. He had always been capable of controlling himself, whether towards calm or rage, but his efforts were becoming increasingly more demanding. It took a great deal of focus to remain seated and not charge out the hamlet's thick wooden gates, out into the forests where he suspected his answers might lay. No. He needed more information. With a shake of his barbarous head, Raghat stood and approached a nearby Fist guardsman.
"Oi, you there. You know anythin' 'bout that group o' fighters passed through here the other day? Tradin' their battle trophies for gold? Spoke to one o' you."
The guardsman gave the orc a curt sizing-up and responded through pursed lips and furrowed brow, "I do not," then, in a standoffish staccato, "Good. Evening."
He turned to leave, and Raghat, blustering with anxiety, walked after him, placing a heavy paw on the white tabard covering the man's left shoulder.
"Listen! What's Krasc? I heard them talkin' about Krasc, what is it?!"
The guardsman spun into a defensive posture and raised his shield, offering the orc little more than the promise of battle in his gaze. In an icy tone, the human responded, "You are not welcome here. Find your way out before there is trouble."
Raghat growled and snarled, his fist instinctively uncurling and darting towards his falchion... but he kept his composure as one with a sudden need to choose his battles more prudently. He spat at the man's feet, glaring, then turned and stomped outside.
What a wonderful position to be in. He knew no more than he had before and was on very thin ice with the one place he felt comfortable in. Raghat, you're losin' it. Time to go south, get some air, he thought to himself. And with that, a driven creature set out in search of his destiny, leaving some of his civility behind at the doorstep of the Friendly Arm Inn.