Skarr is a half-orc barbarian. Being half-orc, he is only fifteen years old, but already well muscled and standing six and a half foot tall. The sides of his head are covered with long rather even scars. The remaining hair he has is pure white and braided all the way back. He fights unarmored primarily with a battle axe and shield.


My name is Skarr only son of Sheryar Whitefeather formerly of the iron talon clan. The iron talon of the eagle totem made their home north of Immilmar in the foothills of the Icerim Mountains. When I was born, my mother was driven from the clan and into the endless wastes. While it was not uncommon for the women of the iron talon to have children and not speak of whom the father might be, it was incomprehensible to the human clan that that child might be of orc blood and the mother not desire to kill it.

As far back as I can remember, my mother taught me of the eagle. My earliest memories of her were filled with hope that we could rejoin the clan; that they would see I was no monster regardless of my blood or how I was begat. We tried to go back a couple times, but were driven away. That is when the rage began. My mother talked less about the nobility of the eagle and more about vengeance she would visit on them if they turned us away. When she did, the yellow eye of the eagle would cloud with a blood red berserker fury.

In the winter of my twelfth year, we made the trek out of the wastes to her home that I might take part in the spirit calling and start on the path of the eagle. Every night of our two week journey my mother would apply the ceremonial tattoos to my fresh shaved head and then blunt the edge of a sword she had always carried but never used. I asked her about the sword and why she would blunt the edge. She simply told me it was a message to the clan elders and that they would understand.

It wasn’t until later that I finally heard of the nydeshka and how human warriors who were feared for their lack of control during battle rage would be given a blunt sword with which to lead the charge into the next battle. It was supposed to be a death sentence. Rumors and old wive’s tales tell of some humans that don’t die in these types of attacks. Some are said to wander the lands alone finishing out there days. Others are said to go in search of those that will accept them for who they are; sometimes even joining orc tribes in their need for camaraderie. It is these stories that made me realize that my mother never talked about ‘my’ blood as much as she did ‘our’ blood. “Our blood” makes more sense in light of what happened when we got to the clan village.

We approached the village from the tall scrub along the river bank. I remember the last words she said to me as clearly today as the day she said them. “Any time you don’t know what to do, take to the wind and figure it out when you have a better view.” With that she instructed me to wait until she gave me the sign to come forward. She strode forward to close half the distance to the village then took off the sword and held it overhead by the scabbard.

After long minutes that seemed even longer, two women in ceremonial eagle headdresses walked from the village toward my mother. My mother lowered the sword and held it at her side while she talked heatedly with the two women. After it seemed the conversation was over, my mother looked over her shoulder to me and shook her head slowly. She then turned back to the women and held out her sword to them. As the older of them took the sword and examined it, the younger of the two women looked confused. The older woman’s face which ‘til now showed no emotion turned quickly to realization and fear.

I heard a great roar and my mother’s form changed, not to that of an eagle as iron talon legends told, but that of a bear. A bear that pinned both women to the ground with its mighty front claws and tore each of their heads off. My mother, the bear, then ran toward the village and the throng of onlooker that had gathered by this time. To this day I’ve not ventured to find if either my mother or that village survive.

That was certainly a time when I didn’t know what to do. What I did know was that if anyone survived my mother’s wrath they would turn their eyes toward finding me. So I ran. For days I ran; stopping only for water and to check for pursuers. I ran until the river turned to lake and the lake came upon a city. I finally stopped when the city streets had me well and truly lost.

I quickly learned that the city was just another kind of wilderness. I lived on the streets with other urchin children until my quickly maturing hands started to prove not deft enough to lift purses. It had happened a couple times that the purse owner grabbed at my hand before I could pull it away. Usually the realization that they had hold of nearly seven foot of half orc couple with a quick fake plea for beggar’s alms muddled their thoughts enough that I’d get nothing more than a startled look and they’d get a quick escape with their coin purse intact.

That didn’t quite work with Finigan Oakheart though. It was stupid to try lifting the coin purse of a man nearly as big as myself. Worked out for the better though. He seems intent on giving me a chance at a more honest living here in the city. He’s further trained me in the ways of fighting and even sent me out to help some shop owners when they need help showing the street thugs what protection is really worth paying for.


The new campaign! wjcameron wjcameron