Galrog Grimmrot

[PepperWolf]

Galrog Grimmrot

    Galrog is a large half orc with generous scars crisscrossing his body. Many years ago he had showed up in the lands of Cormyr and the age is beginning to show on him with peppering of greys through his long hair. He is missing his right eye with tattered bits of flesh clinging still around the socket. Galrog is often clad in heavy looking plate armor dented from combat and sporting a large axe runed with glowing orcish script. Various weapons and tools are strapped to the seven foot tall warrior. The distinct smell of old meat and blood clings to him and his horse. His hair, often covered with flecks of dried blood spray from his axe work, has grown long in the recent years and hangs behind him when he dons his thick helmet covered in dings and chips from various weapon blows. Galrog considers himself a distinctive "Northern Orc" and he may be observed to have some interesting looks like perhaps he might have some gray orc in his bloodline.

Meatbag

   

    Standing at 19 hands tall Meatbag looks either of some sturdy draft horse like stock used for hauling siege equipment or perhaps as some might rumor at the look of it a mix of some other beast blood.  The horse either through filing or damage in combat has some jagged looking teeth. Scars crisscross its dark furred body when not in the thick dark beaten iron armor that Galrog dons on him. Dark bristly fur grows long on his legs near his massive dinner plate size hooves. The two seem often at odds and there is a distinct violence that is traded between the orc and the horse at times when they dont have a common goal. Spines and spikes adorn the horse's armor along with old furs and paddings made of various bits of scavanged plate.

[PepperWolf]

    Lately Galrog has found his way up into the Stonelands among the orcs there. The large warrior spends much of a day within the shrine dedicated to the gods of his people before riding off. The day after returning with a full saddlebags atop his beast-like horse he unpacks no less than a dozen thick bear furs and crates of salt packed meat of the same animal. The furs and meats he offers to those he judges to look sturdy enough to make it through the coming winter and he noticeably pays no attention to the weaker or more sickly. Those aged orcs he encounters he seeks word of their previous battles or perhaps wisdom on the will of the gods. He makes his thoughts known within the village that he seeks an audience with the Chief and that he is seeking to train warriors within the village and pass on the experience he has garnered. 

[PepperWolf]

    Lifting his gaze across the campfire the orc sat in the silence of the night under the vast expanse of the Stormhorns. His armor set aside. His axe near at hand. Smoke still clung upon his flesh. Grease from the meal he had consumed glistened on his fingers and cheek. His gaze was a glassy distant look. To any other he was just sitting there... Watching. Perhaps the smoke coming from another fire in the distance or lost in his head. They wouldn't be wrong.

    The peaks of the spine of the world rose up before him the whipping tails of snow thrown to batter and curl among the rocks drawing up like whips to ward him off. His hands wrapped in worg fur bled and cracked under the extreme cold and jagged stone that greeted his touch. How long had he been climbing? Below and beyond the cavern of the Grimmrot yawned its mouth and belched a grayish smoke that stood out from the whipping snow. They were burning the remains of the wagons.. The distance was great but it did not but push him on. It would be a waste to turn back now. Clinging there for some time he had to stir himself as if from a dream to keep climbing. His cleated boots dug against the snow. Kicking in step after step. His chest heaved in huge swaths of the thin air trying in vain to sweep the fog from his vision. His limbs felt filled with sand and broken glass. His feet like the solid stone beneath his hands. With a great pull he drew his bulk over the ledge and beyond the grasp of the wind threatening to tear him from the mountain side. The bite of the icy gusts cut at his face pinched as it was against it for the past few days. If he didn't keep going the food he brought would not be enough. Not long now.. get up. "Tough as the spines" the voice growled in his ears. "Perhaps one of your brothers...?".

    Galrog's mind pulled from the mountain and thrust within it. That cavern below that drummed with noise, heat, the sound of iron and boots. The Grimmrot had it's hands firmly placed to strangle the mountain pass here and many paid for the privilege or the price to pass through. They were not perhaps as numerous as a southern tribe... Not enough food to go around. But for what they had not in number they had well in boiled down grit and strength. There the clan.. the tribe of his people lived among the unforgiving mountains. His troublesome and quarreling brothers, sisters, and greater tribe lived tucked amongst the cavern stone. For generations his brethren had raided the nearby towns and given war with the dwarves at the mouth of their mines. Like the Grimmrot the dwarves were dug in with such defenses they couldn't be uprooted with the strength at hand. Their hatred played out for each other in small bloody forays now and then but nothing like it had once been. The shamans and priests agreed that the tribe need be numerically reinforced and many had done their part. The cave mother's blessing inscribed on the chests, hips, and thighs of all able bodied women within the cave. A true bounty come spring was hoped. Gruumsh wished soldiers and all must do their part. The long haired cattle captured recently were being tended with care in the depths of the cavern in hopes of a better source of meat. The mountain boar to had given litter in surprising number which led to a great clamor among the shaman. The sound of scrap iron from the tools of the raided miners bubbling in the vast forges or being beat into axes and swords gave rhythm to the life of these orcs. They were preparing for the future of their kind. The old Chief was dead. The tribe now looked to the priests. The gaze of the priests turned to the gods. A sign was sought.

The ground beneath him rose up quickly and his body crumpled against it. The flash of white from the impact blinding him but also shattering the cold numbness with exquisite pain. The fog tore away from his vision for the first time in hours and he looked up at the ledge he had fallen from a few dozen feet above. His left arm ached the worse and suddenly he realized why he hadn't pitched over this slopped landing. His arm was wedged between two stones.

"It's heavier than you think..." said the hardened gruff voice.

He had begun his climb once more. The pain from his arm kept him awake and did not slow him. The spire curled no longer high above but just beyond a gap in the ice and stone... "Tough as the spines" he cried out and threw himself into a leap over the gap. His hands scrambled at the stone to save himself from the ice and snow that gave way when his bulk slammed into the peak. Drawing himself up with his last ounce of strength he sat near his prize jutting out of the top of the mountain peak. The white woolly like flower with it's yellowed star like pattern was taken with care in numb fingers. A bag around his neck to be it's comfort for the journey back down. His gaze swept out over the mountains' jagged peaks that shared this expanse of the north. The gauzy clouds tore as they pressed between and past into the greater north beyond. Galrog stood up as if to show his height beyond that which the mountain could reach. "Tough as the spines!" He roared.

The pine wood spit and popped and the orc that had sat so still was once more looking across the campfire up at the Stormhorns.

There was no stir in the air just then and he held his breath. They were always just out of sight. He closed his left eye... His right empty socket gaped open and his brow furrowed. When he opened his eye again they were there in their full number. Gray and mottled from the stone that had crushed them. Their eyes were glassy and they threw no shadows. The Grimmrot.

An old orc with an intense stare sat across from him. It was like nearly looking in a mirror these days. He was no longer young. Nearly the same age now. Blood dribbled from his fractured skull.

Galrog knew the old man would not speak. That the voice of his tribe belonged to him now and him alone as the last of the Grimmrot. The words came all the same even as the ghost of his father eyed him unmoving. "it's heavier than you think.."

And they were.

[PepperWolf]

The large orc is once again seen within the orcish village. A crudely constructed sled is drug behind the draft horse he rides. After finding his way to the center of the settlement he chains the beast up and enters the temple. Setting down a sack of coins and taking a knee to offer his prayers before returning to the sled. Meat and thick uncured furs of large mountain bears are handed out to the hard working masons and guards. The mothers get the bulk of what he brings. This time during his stay he endeavors to speak with those working the forges and building the defenses.