It has been 40 years since the beginning of Slaveen's overthrowing of the Monodranis government. A half-demon warlock with great skills of political deception and corruption, Slaveen created an oppressive, facist government over the Monodranis Empire, expanding it to 3/4 of the realm. Inspiring a sense of national and religious superiority in his empire, Slaveen executed or exiled all those who didn't recognize Merdeuism as the main religion. Millions were ripped apart by wolves or burned at the stake for their supposed "heresy", or slain by his heavily armored swordsman, the Caballeres. Most non-Monodranen races were enslaved. Eventually, the empire reached the plains of Tucery, and the nomadic Orszarvus people, humans whose blood was once mingled with that of orcs. The king of the Orszarvus, a barbaric brute by the name of Bielda, as part of his alliance with Slaveen, ordered all followers of the Pagan religions be slaughtered, and all Orszarvus people with over 30% Orcish blood banished. Some resisted...They all fell. The son of one of the resistance fighters was eventually sent away, with an Orszarvus mounted archer to protect him.
The mounted archer had been traveling for a month. No one would dare accept the child and show even the slightest of resistance to the new regime. His journey was perilous and exhausting enough to fell even the strongest of Orszarvus, but as the father’s uncle and with the blessing of Taemgris, he had gathered up the strength to pull through. For over 2 weeks, an arrow had been dug into his stomach, a gift from a Monodranis crossbowman. As his vision began to blur, he thanked Taemgris, God of War and Revenge, the all-powerful King of the Gods. His horse had grown tired too, they were both nearing the Naecros, God of the Death.
He saw a small village in the distance where many Yerts had been placed. Several bulky greyish/green figures were seen wandering about. The adult males joked around exchanging bawdy jokes, the women prepared the camps, and the adolescents engaged in mock sword play with short sticks. The appearance of the villagers, the suggested attitudes of the inhabitants game the archer the impression that It was an Orcish village. It would be an odd sense of irony if the Orcs were the only ones to accept the child. Exhausted, the mounted archer fell of his horse. Giving out a cry, he received the attention of the Khilta, the leader of the Orcs.
An ancient looking Orc by the name of Moredliv, he walked to the messenger. He aimed his composite bow at the messenger, fearing his intentions. The growing wound of the messenger spurted blood as the red circle underneath began to grow larger and larger. The messenger motioned to a moving package in the sack on the now dead horse. One of Moredliv's many archers aimed his bow at the package, but Moredliv motioned him to stop. He approached the sack, opening it. A crying baby lay inside, malnourished and weak.As Moredliv looked to the messenger, he saw that he had passed to the realm of Naecros. Moredliv took the baby and approached the village, his rangers by his side.
A past vision hit Moredliv like a hammer. A ferocious and brutal ranger in combat, Moredliv had long been feared by the enemies of the Orcs. All the same, there was tenderness between his fearsome exterior. He had a particular fondness for children, and often prayed for his own. His first child was Geraa, and throughout the village there was celebration and excitement over the babies birth. That was until the Monodranis raid. On the night of his wife’s birth, the village was attacked by radical Monodranis warriors. Much of the camp survived thanks to the Orcs ferocity, but in the bloody combat, Geraa and his mother were lost. As Moredliv looked at the child, he saw a gift from Taemgris and a reward from the Heavens. A tear dropped from his eye as he picked up the baby, and began to move towards the camp, examining it with a curious expression.
Moredliv's daughter Magdolna, little over 5 years old, approached her father. She had short black hair, large, brown eyes and dark grey skin. "Father, please, please let me see it!" Moredliv smiled, lowering the child to her daughter. Magdolna squealed in joy at the little pink bundle. “What’s his name?” asked the small Orcish girl. Moredliv shrugged, “I’m not sure...I’ll give you the honors.” Magdolna held her chin and scrunched up her face thinking of a name, like it was a great riddle. She snapped her fingers as he answer came to her. “Tuldilla!”, she cried out. Moredliv nodded. “Very well. I have an appointment with the Baukren. The child is your responsibility while I’m gone. Get him something to eat, the poor thing must be starving.
When her father had left to discuss diplomacy with the Baukren, a race of 7 foot bipeds with the heads and feet of bulls, Magdolna retreated to the tent of the village’s chef to get the baby some soup, then retreating to her father’s tent where she cradled the baby as it loudly slurped it’s meal. When the child had finished the soup, it motioned to the dead horse of the messenger. Magdolna looked back at the horse and then at the baby doubtful. "Sorry Tuldilla. He's with my old baby brother now. Father says that when we die, we go to a great field of gold and that..." The baby began to cry again. Magdolna rolled her eyes as she walked up to the dead horse. As she looked at it, she noticed something else in the bag. A one-handed axe, curved almost like a scythe. As she picked it up, the baby laughed. Magdolna laughed at the absurdity of it, but perhaps this was all that was left of his previous life. Of course not. He was a Találékonae now, "Orc" in the words of the babies parents. But all the same...She was a bright young girl, and decided she would keep the axe...Just in case.
Up behind her was heard several bludgeoning noises and grunts, followed by a loud“Attiath!” The noise of a fist striking flesh followed along with a gruff, rebellious voice announcing “Get your damn hands off me!” A 12 year old half-orc pushed aside a teenage orc as he stormed into the tent. This was Attiath. was the son of an Orcish mother and a human father, a warrior from the shores of Eitan. His father died fighting for the Eitanean resistance. His mother committed traditional Talaekonae suicide not long afterwards. Attiath has light green skin, and two short tusks protruding from his mouth. His hair was held back in a ponytail. As he approached the child, he smiled. "That little bastard has the heart of the best of Moredliv's rangers” laughed Attiath gruffly, “It's only natural how he reaches for that axe like a pig for slop." Magdolna held Tuldilla close, looking back at Attiath nervously. "What if he dies like Geraa did? I won't let him!" Attiath laughed at Magdolna's mistaken concept of death. "He won't die like Geraa. Geraa was a sick baby, nothing could have saved him. This one looks strong and healthy. He already looks like he's eager to take to the horse, with his legs kickin around like a newborn dragon." Attiath and Magdolna laughed.