Character 15 - Human (Half-Orc) Champion
Life as a Half-Orc is difficult anywhere, but it is especially difficult in the great human cities. As you grew up in Endmere, the child of two half-orc parents, you realized that you and "your kind" were nothing more than second-class citizens, assumed to be ignorant and brutish no matter what your skills and abilities were. But you also came to believe there was a way to capitalize on that brutishness. You could gain respect, and even adulation. Sure, there was a high chance of a short lifespan, but it would be worth the risk. As soon as you were old enough, you decided to become a Gladiator and fight in the Great Arena of Endmere.
You learned quickly, though, that what you were really signing up for was just a form of slavery. You signed a contract in which you promised to live in the gladiatorial training camp... to train when you were told to train... eat when you were told to eat... rest when you were told to rest. You were paid a small amount of coin, but to your dismay, you were also billed for your room and board, and charged for any weapons or equipment you wore out or broke. When it was all taken into account, you were actually losing a few silver coins every week. You discovered that this was how the masters of the Arena games managed to keep their stables of gladiators well stocked: once you signed up, you could never afford to walk away. Technically, you could quit at any time, but your balance of owed coin was due immediately when you did, and debtor's prison was the result if you couldn't pay in full.
There were a few, though, that were able to escape the life. If you were successful, and if you put on a sufficiently impressive performance in the arena, with style and drama as well as strength and blood, then the people would love you. And if they loved you, they threw gifts at you from the arena seats - and sometimes they threw coins. These were yours to keep. Every few years, one or two top gladiators found they had amassed enough this way to effectively buy their freedom.
It took you seven years to achieve enough success and adulation in the arena to buy your way out. Your "flair" had been to fight as an Orc would fight; you mastered orcish weapons and flamboyantly displayed "orcish ferocity" to excite the crowds. By your count, you had killed over 200 others to win your freedom... 200 others whom you privately called "slaves of the Arena" who were just trying to do what you succeeded in doing. You were heartsick as you walked out of the arena carrying the weapons that made the crowds cheer as you brought them down on your opponents.
Your first stop after walking out of the Arena was the Temple of Praelius, the Humanar God of Battle, the god to whom you prayed for victories in the arena. Praelius was a god of glory, and as you thought about your life as a gladiator, you didn't really see much glory in it. There was no reason for the carnage of the arena other than entertainment. You came here to pray for guidance - how could earn true glory?
Praelius answered your prayers. You would become one of his Champions. Since your personal shame was having killed what you deemed to be slaves to their own poverty, your atonement would be a lifetime of freeing others from this plight. You would become a Liberator of Praelius, travel the world, and help all you met to live the life they wished to live in freedom.
You traveled south, into the Frontier Lands. These were lands of people that had already fled the structure and servitude of the great kingdoms to the east and the false freedoms of the Free Cities like Endmere. But you knew there would always be people seeking to control others - even in these lands. You would ensure that those willing to give up all they knew to seek freedom in the wilderness would find that freedom.
But you were still a half-orc. Orcs were a potential threat in parts of the Feywood, so you were looked upon with suspicion. You decided that you would be more effective as part of a group of adventurers, with others that people would trust more implicitly. So you headed to the place you knew was the best place to find fledgling adventurers in the Feywood - the Bugbear's Head Inn.
You learned quickly, though, that what you were really signing up for was just a form of slavery. You signed a contract in which you promised to live in the gladiatorial training camp... to train when you were told to train... eat when you were told to eat... rest when you were told to rest. You were paid a small amount of coin, but to your dismay, you were also billed for your room and board, and charged for any weapons or equipment you wore out or broke. When it was all taken into account, you were actually losing a few silver coins every week. You discovered that this was how the masters of the Arena games managed to keep their stables of gladiators well stocked: once you signed up, you could never afford to walk away. Technically, you could quit at any time, but your balance of owed coin was due immediately when you did, and debtor's prison was the result if you couldn't pay in full.
There were a few, though, that were able to escape the life. If you were successful, and if you put on a sufficiently impressive performance in the arena, with style and drama as well as strength and blood, then the people would love you. And if they loved you, they threw gifts at you from the arena seats - and sometimes they threw coins. These were yours to keep. Every few years, one or two top gladiators found they had amassed enough this way to effectively buy their freedom.
It took you seven years to achieve enough success and adulation in the arena to buy your way out. Your "flair" had been to fight as an Orc would fight; you mastered orcish weapons and flamboyantly displayed "orcish ferocity" to excite the crowds. By your count, you had killed over 200 others to win your freedom... 200 others whom you privately called "slaves of the Arena" who were just trying to do what you succeeded in doing. You were heartsick as you walked out of the arena carrying the weapons that made the crowds cheer as you brought them down on your opponents.
Your first stop after walking out of the Arena was the Temple of Praelius, the Humanar God of Battle, the god to whom you prayed for victories in the arena. Praelius was a god of glory, and as you thought about your life as a gladiator, you didn't really see much glory in it. There was no reason for the carnage of the arena other than entertainment. You came here to pray for guidance - how could earn true glory?
Praelius answered your prayers. You would become one of his Champions. Since your personal shame was having killed what you deemed to be slaves to their own poverty, your atonement would be a lifetime of freeing others from this plight. You would become a Liberator of Praelius, travel the world, and help all you met to live the life they wished to live in freedom.
You traveled south, into the Frontier Lands. These were lands of people that had already fled the structure and servitude of the great kingdoms to the east and the false freedoms of the Free Cities like Endmere. But you knew there would always be people seeking to control others - even in these lands. You would ensure that those willing to give up all they knew to seek freedom in the wilderness would find that freedom.
But you were still a half-orc. Orcs were a potential threat in parts of the Feywood, so you were looked upon with suspicion. You decided that you would be more effective as part of a group of adventurers, with others that people would trust more implicitly. So you headed to the place you knew was the best place to find fledgling adventurers in the Feywood - the Bugbear's Head Inn.
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