Appearance: Kerek is a huge, grey-green slab of an orc. He sports the thick, unglamorous muscle of the working man with a burgeoning gut that suggests he’s been at this perhaps a bit longer than he should. Scars peek from his collar and mar a tusked face that frankly wouldn’t look much better without them, hinting at the particulars of his work. He keeps his hair cropped and sports perpetual stubble.

Background:Kerek grew up on the mean streets of the capital, running in a semi-feral pack of urchins and cutpurses and living off either the fruits of petty crime or the gruel of the local house of corrections. After a particularly brutal stint he resolved to go straight and spent his teen years working at the docks, loading and unloading cargo. These days hurt the most when he thinks about them, not for the backbreaking toil, but for the bonds made and love shared. But time ever marches on, trampling plans, and work stops coming. Old men with weak spines are more than happy to pay young men with strong backs a shiny penny to die for them, so he and his mates make their marks at the bottom of the paper shipping out to gods know where to fight gods know who. Day by day, year by year, the campaigns blur together and the names of the fallen matter less and less. Kerek did find a kind of fulfillment in the work though, every battle walked away from another bit of proof that he was doing what he was meant to do. Those same old men now sought him out for bespoke acts of violence, some subtle, others extravagant, all lucrative. Before long he’d become a fixture in the retinue of a local kingpin, dispassionately dispensing violence at the snap of a bejeweled finger. He lived well until the situation imploded, the local hoi polloi finding what the kingpin had been getting up to in his private chambers disagreeable. He escaped with his life, sword, and not much else and now has made his way to the middle of nowhere to ply his trade in a less crowded market.