Height: 6'2"
Weight: 235lbs
Age: 32

It is a strange visage of an orc that takes a seat by the fire: large compared to most humans, but not imposing by orc standards. His thick black dreadlocks are woven with glass beads and small bones. His green eyes are piercing and, as they reflect the fire, almost seem to glow with an ethereal light. Much of his visible grey skin is covered in thick black tribal tattoos though a scholar might have difficulty telling which tribe precisely they denote. His armor is a haphazard mess of seemingly unrelated pieces including a wolf skull pauldron and a single greave covered in wrought iron spikes. His breastplate is painted black, but in a few places where the paint has chipped away, the bright white silver gleam of mithral can be seen. Over this melange of armor he wears a cloak made from the tattered vestments of an orc shaman. Strapped to his back is a lethal looking falchion made in the style of the orc barbarians which somewhat belies the fine craftsmanship. He grins as he takes his seat and the expression is almost manic, as though this half-orc might not be entirely sane.

With that slightly disturbed grin on his face, he begins to tell his tale. "So, you want to hear my story do you? I suppose you mean the story of this life. For if I told you the story of all my past lives we might wither away in these chairs before we reached the end of the tale. Very well, the spirits tell me that you are in earnest so I shall share with you the events of my life." The firelight catches in his eyes as he begins his tale and they flash with an otherworldly gleam.

"I was born to an orcish mother and a human father in the foothills of the Nightfang Mountains. Even in those climbs, most folk aren't too keen on orcs so my parents were run off before I was a year old. My father didn't survive the mountains so my mother took me back to her tribe. I don't remember anything before the tribe and believe me, I wish I didn't remember that either. Orcs aren't kind to their smallest and weakest even when they're full bloods. I was mocked and beaten every day, but that was not the worst of it. No, the real trouble came with the voices. I couldn't have been more than ten when I started to hear them. They would whisper to me as I was pelted with rocks or dangled by my feet from a tree. At first it was hard to understand them, they were like the noise of a stream, but as I got older, I began to hear the words. By fourteen, I could barely tune them out. It wasn't until the tribe's shaman realized what my affliction was and took me as her apprentice that I began to learn to understand them. Those were dark days under her lash. Orcish shamans are cruel taskmasters, but she taught me much and the more I learned the more the voices made sense. A day after I turned sixteen the voices told me I should leave the tribe so, I did. I packed up everything I could carry and marched South to find my destiny."

"I won't bore you too much with the details of my early wanderings, but it took some time to learn the customs of your more civilized lands. I took up the character of the half-mad orcish seer and wandered around telling fortunes. I learned a little theatricality that helped the act and along with what magics the spirits granted me I managed to earn a small reputation. It was easier to live on the edges to avoid attracting too much attention." The strange mystic reclines in his seat, content with his recounting of the tale.

"What's changed you ask? What has brought me out from my haunts? Well friend, the spirits have spoken a prophecy to me: they speak of the return of someone important to these lands. Someone whose fate will shape the future of the world. So I have come to seek out that person and tie my fate to theirs. The spirits of my ancestors demand that this is our destiny."