World of Clockz
One-eyed half-orc with dark hair and many scars. 6ft. 4in. 240 lbs.
The Mark of Gruumsh
He knocked his boots against the door frame and grimaced as the mud splattered him more forcefully then anticipated. The merchant quickly wiped the leg of his pants with a sigh before entering the tavern. It was most certainly darker within the tavern then outside, even with the clouds, and just as damp and chilling unless one manged to acquire a seat immediately adjacent to the hearth. The only real distinction between the tavern’s interior and the outside world was the aroma of stale food, warm beer and rotting wood. Despite it’s sub-par insulation, the tavern was still unusually packed on account of the weather, so he let the flow of the crowd lead him to a dark forgotten corner of the bar.
By sheer coincidence, or perhaps an act of the unforeseen hand of fate, an empty table was nestled in the the corner, tucked away from most of the rabble. It looked as if it had not been used in some time, as if it’s existence had been completely forgotten. So forgotten in fact, that the staff had not bothered to clear it since it’s last use, and several dirty plates and mugs lay strewn about it’s surface. Still, a seat was a seat, and the merchant’s body ached from carrying his pack full of wares through the mud all day. With a second sigh he approached the table, and could not help but over hear a somewhat loud discussion as he did so.
“I’m sorry, but you know my hands are tied”.
The speaker was a large, clean-shaven man clad in full military regalia. Even while leaning against the corner of the bar his stature was impressive.
“So you would send untrained babes off to war dressed in rags and wielding twigs and pitchforks? I thought you had more honor then that, but I guess I don’t know you as well as I thought, despite all those years we served together”.
The reply came from and equally large, even more imposing half-orc. His skin was brown, somewhat like a Turami, but greyer, less saturated. He had dark, thick, hair, roughly shoulder length, but varying in some parts. It was largely unkempt, though a thick warrior braid hung over each shoulder reaching about the top of his chest. The rest was tossed carelessly over the back of his shoulders except for two more much shorter, thinner braids that hung from his left temple.
“We may go way back, but that doesn’t give you any right to question my honor”.
There was a subtle but perceptible edge in the soldiers voice now.
“Nor does it give you the right to make demands of me. You don’t have the authority to requisition supplies anymore, and even if you did, I still wouldn’t be authorized to fill the order”.
The soldier let out a heavy sigh
“It’s all moot anyway, we both know how bad the situation is. We’re stretched so damn thin there aren’t any more supplies to go around, so the recruits have to make do with their ’regulation” gear, no matter how inadequate it is. Believe me, I don’t like it anymore then you do".
A guttural grunt was the half-orc’s only reply.
“Look,” the soldier’s voice was hushed now, “we both know that the reason you’re pushing so hard for this supplies is because of Cooper’s boy”.
“Cooper was a good man, a good soldier, we owe it to him to make sure his boy at least gets some decent gear, honor demands it,” the half-orc said gruffly.
“Here’s what I’ll do,” there was a softness in the soldier’s voice now, “I’ll arrange to have my personal footlocker and all it’s contents, weapons, rations, everything but the sword at my side and the armor off my back, sent to his post.” The half-orc grunted and nodded in approval.
“It was wrong of me to question your honor, you’re a good man, and a hell of a soldier”.
They soldier raised his tankard “For Cooper, and his boy!” He then downed his drink in one swig, saluted the half-orc, and left.
It was at this point that the merchant’s weary body finally gave out and his pack crashed to the floor, scattering rations and several short swords across the floor and reminding him that he had neglected to actually take his seat. The commotion caught the attention of the half-orc, who took one look at the spilled contents before marching over to the secluded corner. Without a word he bent down and assisted in gather up the merchant’s supplies. The merchant thanked him nervously and sat down at the cluttered table.
With a swift motion the half-orc swept his arm across the table and sent the various refuse clattering to the floor.
“I’m Gormak, and you must be the weapons dealer I contacted.”
“You’re the buyer?” the merchant asked cautiously. From a distance Gormak had looked rather plain aside from the wild hair and obvious orc features. But only the left side of his face had been visible. Only one short braid hung at his right temple as his hairline was disrupted by a jagged scar that that ended at the top of his cheek, below his right eye. Much of the wound was obscured by a unique eye patch. It appeared to be made of animal hide, and the stitching was adorned with various small teeth and claws, and several tufts of fur hung down over the patch itself. Another scar cut horizontally across his right cheek below his eye patch. A third scar cut downward across his lips near the right corner of his mouth. His right fang was broken and the tooth next to that was chipped. The tooth above the chipped one was simply gone.
“Do you fear me?”
The question caught the merchant off guard, was this some sort of trick? After a moment he replied; “My only fear is getting swindled, so as long as you can pay I have no problems with you”. Gormak chuckled to himself, then leaned across the table.
“Let me show you something,” Gormak lifted his eyepatch. It was a gruesome sight, yet the merchant found himself transfixed. Suddenly, it seemed as if the the wound were fresh, inflicted only moments ago. Gore seeped from the wound and drowned out the world. He felt a deep sorrow and anguish and the tinge of loss, it, surrounded him like a fog, and somewhere beyond the haze, he felt a powerful, deep-seated malevolence, that throbbed like a heartbeat. it was faint, as if it were far away, but the merchant was sure that it was nearby, and it filled him with dread and made his blood run cold. it was at that moment that he was broken from the trance by the sound of Gormak’s voice.
“Do you fear me now? Because you should… I know I do.”