Playing Orkil:
Orkil has a bright, cheerful demeanor intended to put those around him at ease. He uses charm and humor as both a barrier and a disarming tactic. Though he is not opposed to pleasurable company, his heart will always belong a woman he left behind.
Character Sheet:
Orkil CR 1/2
Half-Orc Bard XP 200
Humanoid (human, orc) NG
Init +0; Senses darkvision 60 ft, Perception +0
Defense
AC 13, touch 10, flat-footed 13 (+3 armor)
hp 10 (1d8+2)
Fortitude +1, Reflex +2, Will +2
Offense
Speed 30 ft.
Melee Krunzani +3 to attack 1d12+3 *3 critical
Ranged light crossbow +0 to attack 1d8 19-20/*2 critical
Special Attacks bardic performance 8 rounds/day (countersong, distraction, fascinate, inspire courage +1)
Bard Spells Known (CL 1st; concentration +5)
1st (2/day)-silent image (DC 15), ventriloquism (DC 15)
0 (at will)-detect magic, ghost sound, mending, prestidigitation
Tactics
During Combat Orkil if at all possible prefers to stay out of direct combat. He instead focuses on supporting and enhancing his allies capabilities with his bardic performance and causing confusion among his enemies with his spells.
Statistics
Str 14, Dex 10, Con 13, Int 14, Wis 10, Cha 18
Base Attack +0; CMB +2; CMD 12
Feats Skill Focus (Perform [oratory])
Skills Bluff +9, Diplomacy +8, Intimidate +10, Linguistics +6, Perform (oratory) +11, Perform (percussion) +8, Sense Motive +4, Spellcraft +6
Languages Common, Orc, Balzov, Dwarven, Elven
Traits Fast Talker, Scrapper
Gear Krunzani, light crossbow, quiver with 20 bolts, studded leather armor, traveler's outfit, smokestick, tindertwig (3), bard's kit (backpack, bedroll, belt pouch, beatstick*, flint and steel, ink, inkpen, iron pot, journal, mess kit, mirror, rope, soap, torches [10], trail rations [5 days], waterskin), and 4 gp
*A beatstick is a smooth stick meant for hitting against a solid object to create a thumping sound, Orkil most frequently uses it against the handle of Krunzani to provide a rhythmic beat
Backstory:
Born to the
favored slave of the Hiz’rych Kopjad Clan Chief, Orkil spent most of his early
childhood years struggling to fulfill the expectations placed upon him. In most
cases amongst the orc clans, bastard children of the chief are raised to serve
as the protectors of the chief’s heir and the clan’s future chief. The problem
in Orkil’s case was that he could barely compete with his half-siblings in
terms of raw strength and he lacked the ability to match them in any form of
competition.
Both his parents
were disappointed, but Orkil’s mother spoke to High Shaman Gornash. Her thought
was that if his gifts were not with the martial, perhaps they were with the
spirits. High Shaman Gornash called Orkil into his tent to test the 5 year old
to see how the spirits felt about him.
While preparing
herbal incense, Gornash asked Orkil a series of seemingly nonsensical
questions. Though not understanding what the various questions meant, Orkil
answered to the best of his ability. After about fifteen questions, none of
which made any sense to Orkil, Gornash threw the herbal incense into his tent’s
central fire.
The incense
turned the flames blue, and within the green smoke, two shapes took form. One
resembled the head of a wolf, the resembled the upper body of an orc warrior.
The two spirits, for what else could they be, examined Orkil. The wolf spirit
floated around him, sniffing him like a wolf or dog would. The orc spirit
looked deep into the boy’s eyes, before both turned to Gornash and spoke to the
elderly orc.
“His mind is sharp and he will go far. But
not with us. His soul, like most, will not let us in. However, there is the
scent of history and song in his soul. Take him to Vekna, and have her test
him.”
With that, the
two spirits dissipated and the flames and smoke returned to their original hue.
Gornash let out a sigh as he led the toddler to the clan’s historian. It was
unfortunate that the child was unsuited to the path of the shaman, he was
getting old after all and he hadn’t had a student in some time.
Upon arriving at
the historian’s tent, Gornash told the middle-aged historian about the spirit’s
decree. Looking over Orkil, she shrugged before declaring that it was about
time she had an apprentice. Even if it was a half-breed that couldn’t wrestle.
With that, Orkil
was drilled day after day. He was told the clan’s history, the world’s history,
and more. Though they had a written language, the orcs passed down their
history orally. Too much would be lost on the page. Lines on a piece of leather
or parchment couldn’t convey the emotion of an event. Couldn’t pass on the
wonder at seeing a flight of dragons fly overhead. The horror of the dead
rising on the field of battle. The joy of finding a lost goat. History was so
much more than things that happened. By recording history with the written
word, they would forget that.
Orkil devoured
his lessons. He memorized every tale, every song, and every legend that he was
taught. More than that, he worked on translating them into his mother’s tongue.
To his immense frustration, when speaking his mother’s language, he was having difficulty
conveying the emotions of the stories due to the language barrier. While the
orc tongue wasn’t filled with words that conveyed a given emotion, there were
certain concepts and adjectives that didn’t translate into the common tongue.
When Orkil was
eleven, he was trying to tell his mother the legend of the scorpion demons. In
his frustration, images appeared between his hands, showing what he was trying
to convey as an image. Fast as lightning, Orkil’s mother pulled him into a hug,
scattering the images into motes of light that faded like embers off of a
campfire. Whispering into his ear, she told him to never do such again within
the clan’s borders.
Pulling back slightly,
Orkil’s mother quietly explained that she had seen such magic before. During
her time as a bandit, she had encountered a wandering minstrel that could
create magical effects with a string of his harp.
While she would
otherwise encourage her son to pursue his gift, the Hiz’rych Kopjad strictly
forbid any magic beyond that of the shamans, whose magic came from the spirits.
Should his magic be discovered, he would be exiled at best and killed at worst.
While she may not have chosen to have him, Orkil was still her son.
His mother’s
warning in his mind, Orkil did his best to ignore the magic he could feel
whenever he told a tale or sang a song. Now that he had touched it, he could
feel it brimming beneath the surface. Over the next two years of suppressing
the magic, it slowly faded away until it almost completely disappeared.
Now thirteen,
Orkil had learned and memorized all the history that the clan historian had to
teach. With a measure of reluctance, Vekna began to teach him Balzov: an
ancient tongue that had been passed down from elder to elder for longer than any
orc could remember. She shouldn’t have begun teaching him until he was at least
twenty, but she had nothing else to teach him.
What Vekna never
knew was that Balzov caused the magic that Orkil had buried to stir. Something
about the ancient words resonated with the magic of music and story that rested
within Orkil’s soul.
Though harder
now, Orkil managed to keep his magic hidden. Then, as he turned fourteen, Orkil
realized with horror something else that he had to keep secret.
The traditional
role of the children of the chief’s slaves was as the personal guard for the
chief’s heir. Chief Naztu’s heir was a full-blooded orc girl named Sheega. A
little younger than Orkil, she was a wild and active girl who managed to
outwrestle some of the orc teens when she was ten. While he was no longer
expected to be her bodyguard, Orkil still spent a great deal of time around the
young spitfire.
There was no
secret that the two of them were half-siblings, but to Orkil’s shame he found
himself growing feelings towards his sibling that no sibling should feel
towards another. He was falling in love with his wild, passionate, warrior of a
half-sister. Not wanting to leave the clan, for where would he go, Orkil tried
his best to bury his feelings.
He failed. As the
years went by, despite forcing his feelings down whenever they arose, Orkil
fell more and more in love. One day, Orkil came to a decision. He couldn’t stay
with the clan. He had to leave, or his being so close to a woman that he dare
not spend more time with than required around anymore would tear him apart.
Thinking hard, he came up with a reason for him to leave that would not result
in the clan hunting him down due to his knowledge of Balzov. But first, he had
to find a replacement for himself.
So, Orkil spent
two months telling stories to the clan’s youth. While most enjoyed the stories,
it was weeks before Orkil found one that had both the interest and the
potential to serve as the future historian of the clan. Bringing the youth to
Vekna, Orkil nervously told the historian that he desired to leave the clan and
he had found a replacement for himself. Vekna simply looked at Orkil and in a
calm tone of voice asked one question: “Why?”
Taking a deep
breath, he told her the story that he had practiced and was even true to a
large extent: that he needed to hear more stories than just the ones that the
clan had. He needed to learn the tales of other peoples, to sing their songs
both high and low.
Her expression
never changing, Vekna told the child that Orkil had brought to leave the tent.
As the boy did so, the aging orc woman approached Orkil and asked if his desire
to leave had anything to do with the magic that he had been suppressing for
years. Surprised and worried that she knew, or rather what else she knew, he
admitted that it was a part of his decision. He was doing his best to avoid
using it, but every time he told a story or sang it tried to come out and sing
with him.
With deep regret,
Vekna approved of his leaving. She trusted his instincts on finding a
replacement, and she would smooth things over with Chief Naztu. It saddened her
that Orkil felt he needed to leave, but she wished him the best.
In a week, Orkil
was leaving the clan’s grounds for an unknown world. As he said his goodbyes,
Naztu shocked his son by giving him Krunzani. The war axe had been handed down
for more generations than Orkil could count, and was the weapon used in nearly
half a dozen tales that Orkil knew!
Not speaking a
work, Naztu pointed out something on the haft. An inscription had been added in
Balzov: No matter where you go, know that
you will always be my son. Not trusting himself to speak, Orkil gave a
grateful nod before giving his mother a parting hug. With that, he turned and
left the clan.
In a month’s time
while visiting various villages, cities, and roadside inns he learned three new
songs, a new ballad, and half a dozen folk tales. In a year’s time, he learned
more than a dozen songs, ten ballads, the main elven language, and an untold
number of folk tales. His magic sang in his soul and for the first time he
could let it out. His audiences were enraptured by the illusions he provided to
enhance his storytelling. Orkil never imagined that he would enjoy life away
from the clan so much, but his heart still belonged to the woman he left behind
that he couldn’t be with.
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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
If you like my work and want to support me, check out my homebrew race book here.
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