Grimm Skell was born in the capital known as Ghorazad a place where strength was valued, but survival demanded more than brute force. Grimm grew up smaller than most of his kin, but sharper minded and stubbornly resilient. While other young orcs fought for dominance, Grimm learned to track, hunt, and read the land, skills that earned him quiet respect from the elders.
His father, Druvak Skell, was a hardened warrior who believed only in conquest. His mother, Raga, was a leatherworker who taught Grimm patience and craft. When a rival warband raided Ghorazad, Druvak fell in battle, and the survivors scattered. Grimm, only fifteen at the time, fled into the wilds with nothing but his father’s chipped tusk pendant and the clothes on his back.
For years he lived as a wanderer part scout, part mercenary, part ghost. He learned to move through Middle earth without drawing attention, taking work where he could: guarding caravans, hunting beasts, and occasionally serving as a guide through dangerous passes. Though he carries the reputation of an orc, Grimm has grown wary of senseless bloodshed. He fights when he must, but he values purpose over slaughter.
Now at thirty five, Grimm seeks a place to rebuild what was lost. He carries the name Skell not as a boast, but as a reminder of the clan that shaped him. He hopes to forge a future where strength is measured not only by the blade, but by the will to endure and perhaps, to belong.
Your character has just arrived in a swampy, dim town. As they look around, their gaze is met with shacks and cabins. It smells of rotted wood and wet moss. They duck and step into a tattered tent, illuminated by a series of candles suspended in the air. At the back of the tent, an old hag raises her head, “What brings you to this dingy town? She begins, then pauses to study your face—”Ah, it’s you. I’ve been expecting you. Sit,” she gestures at a cushion, “Tell me your story.”
The orc pauses, remaining standing for a moment as his dark eyes sweep the tent and its floating candles. Slowly, he lowers himself onto the offered cushion, the leather of his armor creaking softly.
“Expectation is a dangerous thing,” he rumbles, voice low and rough from disuse. “It makes people see futures that are not theirs to name.”
He studies the hag in return, tusks catching the candlelight as his jaw tightens.
“I did not come for comfort, nor coin. I came because the roads behind me are closed, and the ones ahead smell of rot and old magic.” A brief pause. “If you truly have been waiting, then you already know this—my story is not one I tell lightly. Speak, wise one. Tell me what you think you know… and I will decide what truth you are owed.”
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