I am Heldaga. My father says he knew what name I should have as soon as I was concieved. When I was a child my elders called me merciless, they mocked me for my temper. The other children called me a savage. A half orc abomination. As I grew I showed them how truly merciless I could be and made the title my own.
My father, a human mercinary, met my mother on a campaign. She was a barely a woman when my fathers company destroyed her orc tribe. She would have been killed or worse. He saw her strength and knew that she would bare strong children. He returned with her to his home town. He ignored the villagers judgement, just as I do.
The only persons opinion I care for is my fathers. I believe I impress him. That I am the daughter he wanted.
I stand over many of my peers at nearly six feet. I have made the most of my natural strength and trained hard in athletics to create the body of a predator. My muscles aren't just for show unlike the young men of my home town who are in love with their own reflection and boast about the size of their arms. My hard work has created muscles for strength and speed, like a lioness. My days spent testing myself in the wilderness near my home have removed most of the fat from my body and I have only the barest feminine shape.
I have my father's blood red hair. I tie my long mane in many braids behind my head like my mother taught me. My eyes are orange-yellow, like a burning flame. They are large and slant inward. My brow is thick and low, but not overly pronounced. My nose is flat and wider than a humans. My dark pink lips are thick and my wide mouth has two small tusks that protrude, pointing upward. Overall I have hard and angular, though still somewhat feminine face. I've been described as having a constant scowl. My skin is a light green-grey and thicker than the other races, my arms and legs are covered in small nicks and scars, my extremities are calloused from constant running, climbing and fighting.
I don't care for rules or peoples opinion. My clothing and appearance reflects that. I only care about being practical and looking intimidating to weaklings.
I want to become the greatest fighter in the land. Strength is the only true measure of a persons worth. So I want to become the fastest, I want to survive the most and hit the hardest. To do so I must gain experience wherever I can, find challenges and overcome them until I have overcome them all.
Becoming a mercenary seems like the obvious first step. But if I find a better opportunity I will not hesitate. Honor is for the weak, people with nothing to offer will only hold you back.
This first entry marks the begining of how I became the greatest warrior the world has ever seen.
As soon as I entered The Town I knew I was being watched. I hadn't even made it to the tavern yet before I was approached. The man introduced himself as Chev, a mercenary soldier. He told me that my father had sent him to keep an eye on me after he'd heard about mothers death. It's always nice to hear from father, though I'm not sure how I feel about a baby sitter. The more I learn about Chev the less it seems that way though.
Chev was an older human, with tanned skin and wrinkles indicating age and a life outdoors. His parents were northerners by his own admission. His close-cropped hair and finger length beard are both steel grey. He has tired grey eyes, but they also make me wary of him. He might have been a handsome and strong specimen twenty years ago, but nothing lasts. He is maybe a little short of the human average and on the leaner side. The muscles I saw on his arms are wound tight like whipcords and he has no gut to speak of unlike the bloated bellies of many older men. He wore generic clothes, cheap woolen pants, sleeveless coat, worn leather boots, but he also wore a brigandine and carried a short sword. In other words, he appeared exactly as he explained. An old soldier for hire, far past his prime, "taking one last job before he finds a hole to drink himself to death in." His words not mine.
Father had toured with Chev for many years and knowing that the old man was leaving the company he had asked his friend to come to The Town to make sure I didn't go getting myself killed. Chevs cynicism and apathy can be grating, but he is also matter of fact and I can appreciate his straightforwardness. And if father trusted him so will I. I heard a saying somewhere about respecting an old man in a dangerous occupation. I expect Chev is far more capable than he lets on.
I might try and ask for training from the soldier, but it might take a lot of convincing. He seems like he wouldn't put effort into anything unless he's getting something out of it, and I likely don't have enough coin. Though he is doing this favor to father for free, atleast I assume. From the way he talked I would almost find it hard to believe he cared about anyone enough to do anything without compensation, he must respect father quite a bit. If even half the stories mother told were true, it would be warranted. I'll have ask Chev about their adventures at some point. Don't know how long I could listen to his cynicism before I stab him though.
Reflections On Your Mother
After speaking with Chev I made my way to the tavern where I ordered a feast of hearty meats and vegetables. I visited the local armourers and cobbler and equipped myself with some leather armour and boots.
I was tempted to buy the biggest weapon the weaponsmith offered, but practicality won out and I decided on a broadsword. I also bought an axe as it might be useful at some point.
On a whim I spotted a local artists studio and commissioned a painting. Normally I wouldn't think twice about such a thing, but I felt compelled. It cost only a measly gold coin, so I am at no loss. The painting was for sure beautiful, though it didn't quite capture my likeness. They completely omitted my orcish features. I managed not to reprimand the woman for the insult.
After checking around The Town some more I arrived at the place where one can find trainers that will help in fortifying one's body. After some research I decided to test out their facilities. I spent the rest of the morning being drilled on my running and yelled at. If I didn't want to make use of the trainers again I might have use my fists to put the screeching instructor in their place. Though I can't argue with the results, I feel I broke my own records by a respectable margin after only one session.
After a short rest I returned once again, this time a mild mannered instructor showed me various techniques and gave tips about how to avoid being hit in combat, and how to be the first to strike. Both far more useful than spending a fortune in gold on some hunk of shiny metal to wear. I don't understand the other races fixation on walking around at a snails pace with all the maneuverability of a pregnant cow. Once again the instructors proved quite useful. I almost feel like they earned the ridiculous amount of coin they demanded.
I returned to the tavern and ordered a room, I'm surprised the barman didn't try to swindle me. I'm sure my body was so sore I moved like an old woman, and my eyes were fighting to stay open after the tiresome day I've had. I immediately made use of my bed.
I had a vivid and very strange dream where I met a woman known as the Dream Whisperer. In far more words than necessary she told me that it was my destiny to wield the sword of the Ruler of Kings. She the told me to write the phrase "Reflections On Your Mother" in my journal. Whether it truly means anything or is just my mind conjuring up nonsense I'm not sure.