The Denizens of Gray 12
Oaglamah was the son of a brigand and a witch, his father introducing him to the killing of men and other sentient races early in his life. It was on one of these expeditions with the other Orcs of the tribe that his father was killed abruptly in battle. Oaglamah severed the head of his father’s slayer, a human, and put it on a pike as the fighting continued off into the distance. Forsaking his embattled tribe, Oaglamah took time to cut off and his father’s hand and left to bring it home to his mother. Scorning him, his mother drove him from the home, incanting a wrathful hex upon her son with his father’s own hand for abandoning the fray and the tribe. Until he died by the hand of another, Oaglamah would only wither with the passage of time but not die.
For many years Oaglamah ignored the curse but consistently found that fighting came to him. Disparaged by decades of disturbances to the hermit life he had created, Oaglamah honed himself into a scrapping and unprincipled fighter who sought only to maim and bludgeon and end fights as swiftly possible. Hunting in the hills and drinking from rivers, he attempted to keep on in this way for as long as possible until the night of a terrible storm. While weathering the tempest winds and fierce thunder and rain, Oaglamah’s livelihood was swept away in a landslide.
In the next months, on his search for a new home, he encountered numerous combat challenges. After so many instances of defending his life Oaglamah had finally begun to seek them out. He became a sinister, wandering duelist and he single-handedly assaulted caravans frequently, always sparing those who did not bare arms against him.
One day a mounted entourage of knights was riding by as he stepped out of a forest to cross a trail. He stood there and called them out, easily taunting them and inviting a response. Dispatching a single soldier of their issue to put an end to the Orc’s growling, the knights’ charge ended with a horse leg being chopped off, the beast collapsing and hurling the rider into a tree. Oaglamah ambled over to the unconscious man and crushed his skull under his boot, calling for more as he did so.
The knights swarmed him and several of them were driven from the fight, weaponless, armless, legless. He fought savagely, losing his axe at times into a torso or mount and wresting a new weapon for a moment’s purposes before reclaiming his own. The knights fled and regrouped across a field. They looked at him where he panted there amongst their fallen brethren and broken lances. Oaglamah charged them and they fled.
Claiming a horse for his own, Oaglamah pursued them like a blood-mad butcher. Brazenly entering a village in their wake. He demanded from the terrified townspeople a new battle as the soldiers continued to give him their backs. Disinterested in the weak and in the women, Oaglamah dismounted and screamed in the town square, driving his mount away. Ranks of soldiers filtered from the many alleys and streets to surround him and he waited patiently as the last of the villagers ran out of his way. It was unfortunate for his lack of worldly knowledge that this town was a military staging point against the Skath, the pavilions beyond his view. In his fury the fact would not have mattered.
When the soldiers stopped their entrapment he charged, swooning momentarily from magical trickery before pushing forward for a time with sheer rage. Before he could reach his enemies though, Oaglamah fell to the need for sleep. He awakened in jail and for reasons that he could only attribute to his mother’s hex, no decision was made for his execution. He was transferred to a new jail after many days. A darker one. Here Oaglamah continued his practices of body hardening in his new surroundings and he sharpened the edge of his wrath like his teeth on the stones and bars of his cell. During the years of his imprisonment his past ceased to matter in the shadow of his need to die in glorious fighting.