A Violent History
–Trog
I
My story isn’t happy. I’ve also never told my story like a story. I don’t write things down. I’m doing this at the request of a friend. He says he won’t turn it over to any authorities that might throw me in a dungeon or have my head. Not that it would be such a bad thing for me to die, but that’s not what I want to do right now.
We orcs claim we don’t fear death, but I’m not really an orc, not in the eyes of my people.
I don’t have a second name. Induction into the tribe usually comes in early adolescence, along with the second name, a name bequeathed in honor of some great feat. Deathmountain, for the bastard who climbed the husk of the great dragonturtle Zarutus. Mushblade for the hero who stood against a hoard of black slimes and swung at them until his sword turned to mush. Gutthroat, who gutted a great ogre upon the bonehill, savagely slicing his throat from behind, and so on, and so forth. But I have no name and no honor. I am not an orc. I am just Trog.
Being just Trog doesn’t mean I don’t have any remarkable acts of violence in my lifesong. I’ve done darker, crueler things than anyone. As our forefather Scareye himself said in the record of his lifesong, “Not even the gods can judge me, for, though they made the body and filled it with blood, only I saw it poured out at my feet.”
If, like he said, we can only judge ourselves, I judge myself the worst of all, an envious beast deserving of no name. A selfish fool who lost everything in pursuit of vain glory.
I would like to blame Deathmountain for the way I fell. Some nights as I lie awake, I do blame him. That’s a simple and selfish way of looking at the history.
Orcish culture is hard to explain to people who did not grow up in it. We have an honor code, but it is different than the honor codes of the mortals, or the dwarves, or the halflings, or elves. Our code, the orcish code, would seem like cruelty to them, and probably to you, reader. Maybe it is cruelty, or maybe it isn’t. I simply know that it didn’t work for me.
I was born into a family of twelve. We breed a lot in Rothkull, like mosquitoes in stagnant water, the Bloodskull orcs want to outpace their brethren enemies the Jackalfang. Contrary to popular belief, the Bloodskull orcs prioritize education and the exercise of the mind in childhood. We read a lot. We learn the languages of other lands. We make poetry and consider nature and invention. The most esteemed among our tribe have always been inventors, but I was never very bright. I was only strong.
We are a people who would all die for our tribe, but we are also fiercely independent in our pursuit of personal growth and prizes. I was always afraid to be alone. I had many friends growing up, but none for longer than a few days, that is, until I met Tazra and Shum, my true companions. Tazra was more independent than most, so I latched onto her like a parasite. Shum was a follower, and he followed us. Together we went on many hunts and became strong and well regarded child warriors, unsurpassed by any of our age.
I had a sense of belonging with my friends, but I had trouble with my parents and with authority. Again, this is not so abnormal among the orcs. Competition and ambition are lauded. The battle between wills is a constant dynamic used to propel individuals and the tribe to greater heights, but there was a true hate in my case, a disgust.
My greatest enemy of all was Surggug, named Deathmountain. He was six years my senior and twice my size, and he was condescending in everything he did. He would ruin hunts, openly mock my friends and I, and even make false accusations of dishonor against us.
My first true dishonor came at age fifteen. Shum and Surggug were drinking with Karglak Mushblade, a mutual acquaintance, and they got into an argument about something pointless. Of course Shum and Deathmountain came to blows, and one challenged the other to combat in the Fighting Pit. A crowd gathered in no time, and I watched with eager and fearful eyes. Of course Deathmountain fought dirty, and of course he won. He struck at Shum’s wooden leg and swept him to the ground, then, in drunken fury, he continued to beat him down.
Wishing to protect my friend’s life, I came in from behind and smashed a bone over the back of Deathmountain’s head. I saved Shum, but was marked with dishonor for interfering in the fight. Ironically, I think my future troubles could have been spared if I had simply followed my heart, gone all the way and killed Deathmountain that day. I would still have been dishonored, but my tragic future could have been spared. I think killing him would have been the truly orcish thing to do, but I did not, I just let him lie there drunk and embarrassed, and I thought that was enough.
I came to blows with him several more times after that. His rage only grew worse, and so did mine. He set out to embarrass me at every turn, and I defended myself and my friends viciously.
“You did the right thing, stepping in to protect Shum.” Tazra said to me later as the two of us sat by the mushroom fields and smoked garjakak pipes.
“That’s easy for you to say,” I snorted. “You weren’t dishonored for it.”
She stared at me mockingly, got very close, then blew a puff of garjank smoke right in my face. I coughed.
“I would have done the same if I wasn’t on patrol, but if I were you I would have struck him in the spine and put him out of our misery.”
I wasn’t sure what to say to that. I took another small puff, hiding my shame.
“Not because I particularly hate him. Deathmountain is just another Bloodskull bastard. There are many bastards among the herd. I would have killed him so that you could stop obsessing.”
“I’m not obsessed!” I raised my voice a little. “I’m just protecting us.”
“Sometimes you are, Trog, but sometimes you are protecting the angry child in your heart.”
I grumbled something, I don’t remember what, and we went back to smoking in silence, watching the green clouds pass over the distant mountain Zurutus.
I had my chance to rub it in her face later on. Tazra had warg duty, and she was bound to keep the wargs in the pen for three days, without sleeping. Wargs are just as crafty as they are vicious; their eyes beam with intelligence, and they speak to one another in their own language, so a young orc must be constantly on guard if she wants to keep them detained.
Surgugg played a prank. He put sleeping herbs in her grog, knocking her out for a time, and in that time undid the latches on several of the pens, allowing a dozen untrained wargs to escape.
Tazra was brought to trial. Such carelessness was a crime that could have had severe consequences for a more mature orc, but Tazra was young and unnamed, and was shown leniency. This was the most brazen attack Surgugg ever dared attempt against my friends. I was determined that it would be his last.
I took my axe, Gorblat, carved from the bones of a wyvern, and I assailed his home in the night.
I don’t remember much about the attack, if I’m being honest. That does not absolve me of my responsibility, and I don’t regret it either. I’m told I smote both of his parents, threw his young brother to the ground, and had to be held back by three warriors as I raged. There were no fatalities, and I never struck my blow against Deathmountain, but I was brought to trial.
I only have vague impressions of the trial in my mind. I know many charges were leveled against me, most if not all of them true. I know that Deathmountain, the coward, was not there. Most importantly, I know that, when the tribe was asked if any would stand for me, the crowd was silent. I remember looking to Shum and Tazra, and they were silent. I can still see Tazra’s face as she bit her green lip, silent, hateful and afraid. I think I screamed like a dying dragon.
Unfit to be a member of the Bloodskull tribe, I was banished from my people at fifteen years.
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