My first and last

To whoever reads this, when you find this, I will hopefully be gone from this world. I want to emphasize that I write this not to help anyone understand my mind, but to clear it. If you choose to read this, just know that my mind has been battered and bruised. After the loss of my wife and child, I am but a husk of my former self.

I am Grall, second born to one of history's greatest orc leaders, Doran. I am, or was to be, the tribal leader that surpassed not only him, but even our ancestor, Wreag, who was believed to be a God reincarnated, or so I had been told since the day I was born. I was born with a prequelure gift, the ability to commune with our ancestors, a gift that is inherited by those who are destined to lead the Red Tusk tribe.

I was two when I learned how to wield a sword, four when I took my first life. I was taught battle tactics, history, and, most importantly, war from the time I first left my mothers womb. My brother, Grodak, was the one that taught me the importance of math, science, reading, and writing, for my father, in all his wisdom, what little there was, decided I did not need such things as I would only be a weapon of war, one that was meant to unite the orc clans and finally flee the scar, our home.

To be clear, I did not know why my father was so delusional to think that our kind was somehow trapped in the scar, yet I understood our people's fear of leaving. Three hundred years ago, before Wreag awoke to his God-like powers, the orc race was united under a single banner, one that was more powerful than all the entire human, elf, dasari, Pyroniam, and dwarven armies. Then, one day without warning, a single creature, one thought long killed off by the Gods themselves, strolled through our home and killed every man, woman, and child he caught. Bromearan, our brave and cunning leader and father of Wreag, threw himself against this monster, and of course it couldn't help but enjoy the amusement of tearing him apart.

Through Bromearans sacrifice, many were able to escape in small groups. These groups would later take on different names and pledge that they will unite all those who were lost under their tribal leader, believing that they are the true reincarnation of their God. Many tribes still debate this till today, though it had proven time and time again that there was only one orc that was anywhere close to Godhood, Wreag.

He was just a young boy when his father passed away, Bromearan's soul devoured by the heinous creature that had killed him, and found himself wandering the land in search of his mother. Wreag's anger at how he wasn't strong enough to protect what he cared for boiled in his veins and at the age of sixteen, he took his revenge. It is said that he rode atop an obsidian dragon carrying a long sword, two hatchets, and a javelin as he entered the battle.

When his vengeance for blood came to an end, he returned to the clans and led them to the scar, though few chose to live under his banner, those that did, however, prospered. The tribe that formed under Wreag would later be called the red tusk tribe in remembrance of how Wreag looked, his tusks covered in the blood of his most hated enemy. Or so the story goes.

Personally, I do not believe in the Gods nor would I worship any who sees themselves as being above those they are meant to protect. In my opinion, a very unpopular one at that, even amongst other tribes that for they revere him as a hero to the race as a whole, Wreag was but an ordinary orc who simply killed a very skilled man. There are no Gods that choose to walk among us mortals, just as there are no soul eating monsters that pop up out of the blue to consume your soul.

But, I digress. I have strayed too far from my own story and I ask for forgiveness, dear reader, I only meant to tell a tale that few outside our race would recognize and explain why many of us have chosen to stay in such a dangerous place. Most have never thought to leave, that is until my father succeeded as clan leader. He was the first orc in more than two hundred years to venture outside those rocky walls and see what lies beyond.

He became so enamored with the idea that we, as orcs, should march upon our ancestral home and take it back from the humans who now live there. He even went so far as to call a tribunal to plead with the other tribal leaders to join him in the conquest. They refused and my father, being the stubborn old fool he is, chose to march upon the land anyways. They failed.

Upon returning, my father had nothing to show for his efforts, except for a small child that had miraculously been conceived and born during their six month travel. Many believe the child wasn't a full blooded orc, orcs being known to have a ten month pregnancy so that their bodies could form properly, and was conceived with that of another species. My fathers wife, at the time, had been slain on the battlefield, an arrow had found its way between her ribs and pierced her lungs.

Many in the tribe pleaded with my father to throw the child, who was more frail than any other orc child his age, off the cliffs of Talengar, but my father refused. "The ancestral elders were the ones who commanded me to bring him to the Red Tusk tribe. They believe he is the one we have been waiting for, Talengar's chosen son."

This, of course, was not to be, for if that child was Talengar's chosen, I would not be writing this and instead, I would have united the tribes and led them out of the scar and more than anything, I hate that title. No one saw me as an imperfect being, I was always scolded if I wanted to talk to anyone outside my tribe and condemned if I made the most minor mistakes.

They all only saw the title that was thrusted upon me and constantly made remarks about how I should do better, be better, and how Talengar's chosen should think. I am scoffing at my younger self for believing such foolish garbage. My only reprieve from that lousy title was my brother and a tabaxi whom I had made friends with. They were my saving grace and kept me from losing what little sanity I had in those days.

Many years later, the year I turned sixteen, my father passed away in a tribal dispute, slain by the foulest of the Gods creations, magic. In the orc customs, magic was the greatest of taboos, even worse than killing your kin, and the ancestral elders had tasked my father to eliminate the entire tribe and kill all their mages. I, of course, accompanied my father and his army. It was to be my introduction into the feuds my father had been forced into by the ancestors but it turned into my debut on the battlefield.

My father was struck in the back by lightning, his body began to jerk erratically before falling to the ground, limp and lifeless. For a moment, I just stared in disbelief as the only parent I knew was slain before my eyes. Anger bubbled up, my vision darkened, and my blood pounded in my ears sounding off the war drums of my heart.

I took a spear from a fallen soldier and hurled it six hundred yards piercing the damn mage who took him from me. I wasn't done yet as I leapt into action and sped forward, killing another with a dagger I had on hand. I took his sword and began to butcher the enemy tribe. Any time an enemy got to close and I couldn't break away from those I was facing, a sword, hammer, pike, ax, javelin, or mace would appear in my periphery and block the attack and the blocker would challenge the ones who tried to attack in a cowardly manner.

As I finished off the last magician, I turned to look at the battlefield for the first time since I had joined the fray. To my surprise, the whole of the army lay dead on the ground, their bodies torn and twisted at odd angles and yet, my men, my soldiers, were all perfectly fine and still stood in formation where I had left them. At the time, I had thought that they had just returned to formation once it became clear that we had won, but I was wrong.

When I returned to my men, they stared at me, not with pride and admiration as they had with my father, but with fear. When I asked for a death count, the numbers shocked me. We had only lost one soldier, my father, and had zero injuries.

This struck me as odd, this tribe didn't seem weak and fragile in the least, especially with mages in the mix, and yet we came out of this battle with little to no loss on our side. I inquired as to how this is possible and the captain of the squad looked away, refusing to look me in the eyes as he spoke.

From his report, which I am more inclined to believe now than I was then, when my father's body hit the ground, a black mass began to take form behind me. He said that he felt something deep inside his being telling him to not look away, even though he began to fear for his life, and he stared into the black mass as the bodies of what looked to be hundreds, mave even thousands of orcs appeared taking on a shadowy form. Many held banners that symbolized the tribes, both those that no longer existed due to being wiped out from either battle or natural causes and those that still stand today.

As I charged forward into battle, he was about to order for the troops to follow suit but paused as several war horns, which, upon further recollection, I do recall hearing but I was to angered about the death of my father to pay attention to, and the shadowy soldiers charged into the battle with me, killing all who stood in their way. I have not been able to repeat such an event since and I doubt I'd ever be able to.

Upon returning to the tribe, legends about how I commanded a legion of death knights upon the battlefield and the death of my father soon spread like wildfire. I was officially appointed as the new tribal leader shortly after. Grodak, who had long abandoned the idea of leading the tribe and instead focused on making our tribe stronger through metal works, gifted me with the sword that now rests securely on my hip.

"It's called Oathkeeper." Grodak told me as I marveled at the intricacies of the blade. This was the best weapon Grodak had ever made, it was/is thinner and sharper than a scimitar, stronger than a claymore, and lighter than any blade that could come to mind. "It is meant to remind you any time you weild it of the oath you have pledged to the tribe." An oath that if broken, meant the end of not only my life, but the life of any partner I held dear and the life of any child I may have.

Till this day, I have cherished this sword, it has become my only companion as of late and the only thing that kept me from fighting back against those of my tribe that wished to subject me to this torment.

Shortly after I became the tribal leader, I learned of my so-called gift to commune with the ancestral elders, their demands were never ending, but, being the faithful follower I was, I had no choice but to obey, and obey I did. Shortly after my twentieth year on this forsaken rock, the ancestral elders commanded me to track down and kill a tribe of wandering orcs. I knew of these orcs, all tribes knew of them, they were extremely powerful and could take on even our full might without very many casualties. Looking back, I wonder if the ancestral elders knew this and that was why they tasked me with their destruction, or maybe I am being foolish and they truly thought we could handle them.

It tooks months of tracking and planning but we finally cornered them, but I thought I was wiser than the ancestral elders and instead of sending out troops, I began to poison their water and food supply, cut them off from any outside food, set up archers to shoot anyone who was brave enough to attempt to venture away from their tribe, and near the end, when they were all on the brink of death from poison or starvation, I released wild animals to finish off those who remained.

You may be asking yourself if I felt any guilt over torturing these people and I can firmly say, I do. You can hate me, dear reader, but I do not enjoy taking the lives of others, I do what I must to protect those I care for. Would you not do the same if you were in my position? If you had hundreds of lives that depended on your actions, what would you do in my place?

The ancestral elders, the very same bastards who gave me this suicidal task, condemned me for it. "You may have saved hundreds, but in return you may have condemned thousands." They said after I explained myself to them. "This opens up the possibility that others may use such cheap tricks to kill those they do not like and even try to take control of the orc race through such brutality."

I could not argue with that logic, the reason we orcs have taboos against poison, magic, or cutting off supply trains was because it was not only seen as cowardly, but also opened the doors for more ruthless acts to be committed. I knew what I was doing at the time, I knew it would lead to this, but I had hoped the title of Talengar's chosen would protect me, not like it had any other use uptil now, but it did not and I was cast out of my tribe, banished to walk the lands and to never see my home ever again.

I thought I was lost. I wandered the continent for two years before I decided to end everything and throw myself off a mountaintop, just as my father should have done all those years ago. I remember feeling the air rushing past my face as my body hurtled towards the ground, I closed my eyes and for the first time since I was a child, I almost smiled. But, sadly, the ancestral elders would not allow my rest, not at that time.

I awoke several hours later on the cold hard ground, dried blood stretched several feet out from under my body and it was clearly my blood, yet I lived. After that, it became a repetitive event for me, I would wander a ways before finding something dangerous and try to die. To this day, I have tried to take my own life one hundred forty-eight times, all have been failures, yet I won't stop trying.

In the twentieth year of my life, I found a new reason to live. Her name was Leah, an elven maiden who, just like all the other elves after the second war of Pantheons, was a slave. Some foolish merchants had captured her after she had just escaped imprisonment and were now transporting her through the serpent's forest, a place full of all kinds of dangerous creatures, and were attacked by the beasts of the forest. I just so happened to be close by attempting to take my life once more, and after hearing the noise, rushed to aid them. Only Leah survived, but with heavy wounds all along her body.

At the time, I was unfamiliar with elves and found myself smittened with her beauty. I rushed her into a nearby cave as rain began to pelt us from above, and quickly, methodically, took care of her wounds. After three days, she awoke but, oddly enough, she didn't run away. I fed her, gave her water, and changed her bandages, then we just sat there talking.

We talked about a lot of things, my childhood, her childhood, my race, her race, and she talked about how she ended up in that situation. I wanted to tell her how I ended up here, but feared that doing so would cause her to hate me, so I kept it to myself and instead told her what happened to the caravan. To my shock, she had thought I was either a fellow slave or her new master.

I quickly explained to her that I am no ones slave, be they king or God, I bow to no one and I had no use for a slave since, if luck would have it, I will be dead soon. She looked sorrowful at me when I mentioned taking my own life and began to plead with me to stop. Reluctantly, I told her I would, though I didn't mean those words and I think she knew as much.

A week later, her wounds were fully healed and she was able to walk properly now, yet she did not leave. When asked why she stayed, her response was "maybe I have fallen ill with an incurable disease and can't leave." I was puzzled at first, but as weeks turned into months and months into a year, I decided it was time to ask her for her hand in marriage, to which she said yes.

For the next year, we enjoyed our married life and in the twenty-second year of my life, I lost my wife in childbirth. Anger, resentment, hatred, and sorrow flooded my being as I looked upon the child, my flesh and blood, that had taken the only thing I had in this world to live for. I wanted to kill him, to end his life before it had the chance to even start.

I raised Oathkeeper above my head intending to bring it down on this child, Leah's child, but I couldn't. Not because I would regret it, not because he was my own flesh and blood, but because the eyes that stare so intently at me were those of Leah. I threw my sword to the ground and for the first time since my childhood, I bawled, I bawled like the newborn babe that lay nestled in his basket in front of me, I bawled until I could bawl no more.

Hours must have ticked by as I lay on the cold stone ground staring into Leah's lifeless eyes, trying to will her back to life but alas, I am but a mortal and do not have the power over life and death. When the child began to cry again, I knew I could not take care of him myself. Every time I looked at him, I only saw his mother, so I stood up and sheathed Oathkeeper.

I lifted his basket and left Leah's body laying where it was, moving a large stone in front of the entrance to keep the beasts from making a meal of her, before heading to the nearby village. It was dark out when I arrived so I quickly found an orphanage and, after placing his mother's bracelet, a gift I made for our wedding day, upon his chest, I turned to leave.

I was an hour away from the entrance, deep in the woods when I first noticed the fire raging out of control behind me. I rushed back to the village, praying to whatever God would listen to me that my son was fine, that those damn savages didn't take away the last remaining thing that gave me hope, but it was all for naught. I arrived to find several skeletal remains laying on the ground and my wife's bracelet clutched in the skeletal hands of an infant.

After retrieving the bracelet, I returned to the cave where I left Leah's body and buried her and my son's remains before throwing myself off another cliff. This is the end of my story, or at least, that's what I hope for. I do not wish to live any longer and want to return to my wife's side and apologize for being less of the man she had thought I was.