No one askes to be an outcast. No one askes to be a misfit, a horror. I certainly didn't. I couldn't help that my father raped my mother. I also couldn't help that my mother was a dwarf, and my father an orc. I didn't ask to be a Dworg. But that is what I am. As a child, I had my share of rough times. The other children, and even the adults of my clan beat me, attacked me contantly. The horrid scars on my face were more than enough proof of this. I didn't even wait to be exiled, I left willingly. Just vanished one day. I had no doubts my mother was more happy than sad. She never loved me. She was the reason half of my teeth are gone.
The saddest part is, I don't even blame them. I would have done the same, had situations been reveresed. I am an abomination, and that is the sum of it all.
But that doesn't mean I like it.
When I left home, I wandered for a long time. I came across many people; dwarfs, humans, even the occasional halfling. None treated me kindly. I defended myself when attacked, but tried to avoid trouble otherwise. I left home with the clothes on my back, and a finely crafted knife I had stolen from the blacksmith in town. I gained my short sword from someone unlucky enough to cross me and brandish it in my face. They quickly learned to fear me, before I liberated the sword...and their head.
I met a few orcs too, and the sight of them was too much to bear. I slayed any who got in my path, recklessly. They died, and I bled. And I enjoyed it. The blood brought life and light to my dark and spinning world. With every orc I killed, I searched the dead, half hoping I would find my father, and see him dead at last. At the same time, though, I hoped I wouldn't find him among the dead, so when we finally met, I would be able to kill him in such a way as to inflict upon him what had been inflicted upon me all my life.
I wandered for many years, until I heard the rumors. [i]"The Durgis Clan...they accept Dworgs...they accept your kind..."[/i] Maybe it was true, maybe not. It didn't matter. I had nothing better to do, no other aim.
When I arrived, I found that it was in fact true. The Durgis brought me in. Not exactly with open arms, but the reception was the best one I had received in...well, in my whole life. The clan took me in, gave me a place to sleep, and people to be around who didn't despise me (totally, at least). The clan put me on the night watch, becuase of my aversion to bright sunlight (another thing to thank my father for). I spent most of my time patroling the area around the clan stronghold.
There are others of my kind in the clan, most also on the night watch, but I don't communicate with them. I hate them. They seemed almost to enjoy being who they were. They had been accepted by a clan, and all was happy and right in their world. And I hate them for it. How could anyone accept being what we are...what I am.
So I spent most of my time by myself, as I had done before. I had no strong bonds with any in the clan. What I had was kind of a mutual understanding. No one bothered me, and I would help keep them safe. No friends, no happiness. Save in the spilling of blood, that is. When the occasional raiding party passed by the Durgis clan, that was when I was in my element. The dwarves had given me a warhammer, and I made bloody, efficient use of it, slaying orcs with the hammer in one hand, and my short sword in the other. The melee awoke something in me I had never experienced elsewhere. I often would cut slashes across my arms and chest with the knife I had carried for so long, just to start the blood flowing, and bring the joy of death on me sooner. The joy of blood.
Then, the day came when the elves were supposed to arrive. We were told to watch for them, and the clanmembers escorting them. They sent kids, of all people, to lead these emmisaries. We were hard up for people to defend the city, but not that badly, I thought. Still, our Dorthain thought they would be the best to meet the elves. The fool. It wasn't elves that came, but a legion of orcs, bringing with them walking stones the likes of which I had never seen. I saw them approach, and barely remembered to warn the others, before slipping into the blood-joy. I carved two long gashes along my arms as they approached, and a great red X on my chest as they reached our wall. That's when the battle haze took me, the dizzyness and euphoria and supreme satisfaction of killing and bleeding. I don't remember much after that. I finally awoke from my haze a day later and two miles out of town. I was confused...the haze had never held me that strongly before. True, I wandered into battle often, recklessly, but I usually awoke a short distance from town. Looking backward, all I saw was a line of dead orcs streching back as far as I could see, back toward town. Apparently, I had caught up with a small group running away. When I went back to Durgis Rock, though, I was frozen. The whole town had been destroyed. The elvish emmisaries lay dead on the ground, ceremonially beheaded, and a smouldering pile of orc and dwarven bodies lay charred outside the gate. Entering the hall, even more carnage was present. Our Dorthain lay dead, next to his Master of Arms. The hall had been ransacked, but apparently, someone had interrupted the orcs in the process.
It took a few hours for everything to sink in, but I realized that this was the end of Durgis Rock, of the clan that accepted me. And so I decided again to wander, to follow the orcish troops who were now two or three days ahead of me. And bleed them.