Not many have met an Orum tribesman. Roaming family bands that haunt the stark and rocky slopes of the Windward Crags, they are a dying people, left behind like other relics of bygone ages.

The Orum do not till the earth, nor do they stack stone upon stone. They do not hack up the earth for metals or tend to great herds. The Orum are hunters, both of men and of the beasts that dwell in the crags, and it is said that they will eat whatever they can catch.

They are not a beautiful people, short and thickset with broad shoulders and huge barrel chests, thick limbs and heavy brows. They are known to shuffle when they walk and to make valuable slaves, as they cling tenaciously to their lives and do not tire easily.

Krua is one of these men, a man of the glaciers and the crags, stooped and broad.

He is dressed too warm for the weather, a rough tunic of hide, a great gray pelt draped about his shoulders and his feet wrapped in furs tied up in strips.

He carries a thrusting spear tipped with rock, a hollowed our faun for a bag, and a suspiciously human looking yellowed jawbone on a lanyard about his neck where it rests against his chest.