Name: Boradurk
Class: Bard, self-trained
Race: Half-Orc
Level: 5
Background: Urchin
Alignment: Chaotic Good
Personality:
Boradurk, just Durk to his friends, is the typical Gentle Giant type; he enjoys gardening, drinking, traveling from town to town singing his songs in a rich and almost impossibly deep baritone (think Josh Turner. definitely him. probably will include songs in any playthrough) that leaves people awestruck and throwing coins into his tip jar.
Through his hardships and strifes, he's a little cold to people when they first meet, and no one can blame him once he's told his tale. What friends he keeps close trust him with their lives, knowing that he can talk or sing his way out of any situation and if that fails, he is half-orc and retains his natural instincts with a weapon.
Backstory:
In a tiny town to the north, barely bigger than a hamlet and with no name on the map, a woman fell in love with an orc. He was, for time's sake, unwelcome in any herd or faction for reasons his own. That didn't stop her from loving him, or from sneaking out of the village any chance she got to visit him in his shack a few miles away. It was inevitable that their relationship would be found out, especially when the human woman was found to be with child. The villagers saw her as an adultress, unwed and pregnant at a young age, and shunned her to the very edge of the village, content to let her live out her days alone and in squaller.
It would come as a great shock then when a midwife was called to help her through labor, and a mossy green baby came out of her womb. A call to arms sounded through the village, pitchforks and torches brandished and a manhunt ensued. The woman, barely out of childhood herself, had to watch as her lover was drug out of hiding and burned at the stake in the town square.
For the baby, life would never be easy. With people spitting at him as he walked through the streets, barred from any schooling or houses of learning, and most people refusing to do any trade with him, he and his mother barely scraped by. She was still young, but her vibrancy had become lost with the life of her love, red hair dulled as if with ash and skin sallow. For work, she weaved baskets from reeds she harvested from the marshes to the south, a craft that calloused her small hands and scarred her legs. Boradurk would help as he could, gathering materials for her and as he got older, doing most of the manual labor.
When he was ten summers old, his mother brought him something that would change his life forever: a broken and well-used lyre abandoned behind the tavern among the trash. She'd picked it up and hid it in her cloak, risking lashings from anyone who might have seen her to bring some light into their miserable life. In their one-room shack, she taught him every song she knew, using her skills with the reeds to fashion new strings and a strap to carry it, and over the next few years, his talents became apparent.
He couldn't begin to imagine how one day, everything would come crashing down.
He was barely sixteen summers when, upon coming home from a day's journey to gather more reeds, he would find the front door of their home open, and the body of his mother lying halfway across the threshold. She'd been beaten, the tears in her dress suggested she struggled with everything she had, but ultimately her end would be a long slice across her neck.
Without her, he knew the village would soon come for him like they'd done to his father, and Durk fled. He packed a traveling bag with their food, the locket his mother kept in her pillow, all his clothes and what little possessions he had before dragging his mother inside and setting the house ablaze.
Lyre on his back, and with nowhere to go, he headed south, following familiar roads until they turned unfamiliar, and then further still. Distance from his home would be his safest bet; from what his mother had told him, towns bigger than theirs housed half and full orcs, places that would welcome him with much less prejudice than he'd ever experienced.
Taverns and Inns became his home, wandering the vastness of the continent going where his feet and lyre would take him. It was in these towns and cities and villages that he found himself, found the voice within that drove him to forge his own path. Somewhere in his twentieth or twenty-first year (things tend to blend when you don't have a calendar), he met Thydir Winterbrook; the sneaky, fiendish, and downright dubious gnome became his best friend and partner in both life and death.
Class: Bard, self-trained
Race: Half-Orc
Level: 5
Background: Urchin
Alignment: Chaotic Good
Personality:
Boradurk, just Durk to his friends, is the typical Gentle Giant type; he enjoys gardening, drinking, traveling from town to town singing his songs in a rich and almost impossibly deep baritone (think Josh Turner. definitely him. probably will include songs in any playthrough) that leaves people awestruck and throwing coins into his tip jar.
Through his hardships and strifes, he's a little cold to people when they first meet, and no one can blame him once he's told his tale. What friends he keeps close trust him with their lives, knowing that he can talk or sing his way out of any situation and if that fails, he is half-orc and retains his natural instincts with a weapon.
Backstory:
In a tiny town to the north, barely bigger than a hamlet and with no name on the map, a woman fell in love with an orc. He was, for time's sake, unwelcome in any herd or faction for reasons his own. That didn't stop her from loving him, or from sneaking out of the village any chance she got to visit him in his shack a few miles away. It was inevitable that their relationship would be found out, especially when the human woman was found to be with child. The villagers saw her as an adultress, unwed and pregnant at a young age, and shunned her to the very edge of the village, content to let her live out her days alone and in squaller.
It would come as a great shock then when a midwife was called to help her through labor, and a mossy green baby came out of her womb. A call to arms sounded through the village, pitchforks and torches brandished and a manhunt ensued. The woman, barely out of childhood herself, had to watch as her lover was drug out of hiding and burned at the stake in the town square.
For the baby, life would never be easy. With people spitting at him as he walked through the streets, barred from any schooling or houses of learning, and most people refusing to do any trade with him, he and his mother barely scraped by. She was still young, but her vibrancy had become lost with the life of her love, red hair dulled as if with ash and skin sallow. For work, she weaved baskets from reeds she harvested from the marshes to the south, a craft that calloused her small hands and scarred her legs. Boradurk would help as he could, gathering materials for her and as he got older, doing most of the manual labor.
When he was ten summers old, his mother brought him something that would change his life forever: a broken and well-used lyre abandoned behind the tavern among the trash. She'd picked it up and hid it in her cloak, risking lashings from anyone who might have seen her to bring some light into their miserable life. In their one-room shack, she taught him every song she knew, using her skills with the reeds to fashion new strings and a strap to carry it, and over the next few years, his talents became apparent.
He couldn't begin to imagine how one day, everything would come crashing down.
He was barely sixteen summers when, upon coming home from a day's journey to gather more reeds, he would find the front door of their home open, and the body of his mother lying halfway across the threshold. She'd been beaten, the tears in her dress suggested she struggled with everything she had, but ultimately her end would be a long slice across her neck.
Without her, he knew the village would soon come for him like they'd done to his father, and Durk fled. He packed a traveling bag with their food, the locket his mother kept in her pillow, all his clothes and what little possessions he had before dragging his mother inside and setting the house ablaze.
Lyre on his back, and with nowhere to go, he headed south, following familiar roads until they turned unfamiliar, and then further still. Distance from his home would be his safest bet; from what his mother had told him, towns bigger than theirs housed half and full orcs, places that would welcome him with much less prejudice than he'd ever experienced.
Taverns and Inns became his home, wandering the vastness of the continent going where his feet and lyre would take him. It was in these towns and cities and villages that he found himself, found the voice within that drove him to forge his own path. Somewhere in his twentieth or twenty-first year (things tend to blend when you don't have a calendar), he met Thydir Winterbrook; the sneaky, fiendish, and downright dubious gnome became his best friend and partner in both life and death.